r--T- 


POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM    W.    STORY 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,  BROWN   AND   COMPANY. 

M.DCCC.LVI. 


Entered  m •cording  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

L  1  T  T  LK  ,    1$  R  0  W  N     A  >  D     COMPANY, 

in  the-  Clerk V  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE: 

PRINTKD   BT    n.    0.    HOtOHTON   AND   COMPANY. 


TO 

JAMES     RUSSELL     LOWELL 

THIS    VOLUME    IS 

INSCRIBED 
IN    TESTIMONY    OF    A    FRIENDSHIP 

WHICH,  BEGINNING  IN  CHILDHOOD,  HAS  ONLY  DEEPENED  AND 

STRENGTHENED  WITH  TIME  ; 

AND  AS  A  TRIBUTE  OF  ESTEEM,  ADMIRATION,  AND  LOVE 

FOR  HIS  HIGH  POETIC   GENIUS;   HIS   EXUBERANT 

HUMOR  AND  WIT  ;    HIS  DELIGHTFUL  SOCIAL 

QUALITIES;    AND  HIS  PURE  AND 

NOBLE   CHARACTER. 


CONTENTS. 


CASTLE  PALO 1 

THE  THREE  SINGERS 38 

IN  THE  WEST             .......  44 

IN  THE  EAST 46 

THE  LESSON  OF  MONSIGNORE  GALEOTTO       .        .  47 

ON  THE  DESERT    ........  58 

THE  BEGGAR 61 

THE  CONFESSIONAL 65 

AN  ESTRANGEMENT  .......  84 

IN  ST.  PETER'S 88 

THE  NECKAN 99 

THE  DEATH  OF  GREGORY  XVI 104 

DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVT          .        .        •        .        .  113 
IN  THE  MOUNTAINS     .        .        .-               .        .        .118 

LOVE 133 

SHADOWS    AND    VOICES    AT    TWILIGHT  -  .136 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 

A    TESTAMENT 139 

ITALY    AND    NEW    ENGLAND  .  .  .  •  .143 

THE     MARCHESE     CASTELLO      GIVES     HIS     VIEWS     ON 

ITALY 152 

THE    BATTLE    OF    MORAT         .  .    -       .      ^    .  .  .172 

THE    PINE 181 

VENICE .  .  .  .  .  •  •  .185 

THE    LOCUST •    •  •  188 

BETWEEN    TWELVE    AND    ONE          .  v  .  •  .194 

TO  j—  s— 190 

THE  BROKEN  HARP <  200 

AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY 202 

AT  DIEPPE    .        .        .        .                .        .  •    219 

FAIRY  LAND 221 

THE  VIOLET          .        .        .        ...        .        .  .    224 

THE  TORRENT 22G 

TO  J.  s.          .........  228 

COUPLETS 232 

AT    THE    VILLA    CONTI               .            .            .            .            .  .257 

THi:    BLACK-LETTER    TEXT 268 

SONNET t           .  .      270 

THE    AUTUMN    CYCLAMEN             .            .            .            .  271 

DIRGE 273 

THE    BIVOUAC '  274 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Page 

ARTEMIS .  276 

THE   ENGLISH   LANGUAGE 278 

SAPPHO 286 

SONG 287 

TO    G.    W.    C.   AND    C.    P.    C 289 

THE   LOCUST-TREES 291 

SORRENTO        .......  293 

PROLOGUE 296 

I/ENVOI             .....  306 


POEMS. 


CASTLE     PALO. 

"  'Tis  a  bleak,  mid  place,  for  a  legend  fit," 
I  thought,  as  I  spelt  out  over  the  gate 
The  Latin  inscription,  with  name  and  date, 
So  rusted  and  crusted  with  lichens  old, 
So  rotted  and  spotted  by  rain  and  mould, 
That  in  vain  I  strove  to  decipher  it. 
The  whole  place  seemed  as  if  it  were  dead, 
So  silent  the  sunshine  over  it  shed 
Its  golden  light,  —  and  the  grasses  tall, 
1 


2  CASTLE   PALO. 

That  quivered  in  clefts  of  the  crumbling  wall, 
And  a  lizard  that  glanced  with  noiseless  run 
Over  the  moss-grown  broken  shield, 
And  panting,  stood  in  the  afternoon  sun,— 
Alone  a  token  of  life  revealed. 

The  castle  was  silent  as  a  dream,— 
And  its  shadow  into  the  courtyard  slanted, 
Longer  and  longer  climbing  the  wall 
Slowly  to  where  the  lizard  panted. 
All  was  still  —  save  the  running  fall 
Of  the  surf-waves  under  the  stern  sea-wall, 
As  they  plunged  along  with  a  shaking  gleam,— 
And  I  said  to  myself — "The  place  is  haunted." 

I  to  myself  seemed  almost  weird 
As  I  mused  there,  touched  by  a  sort  of  spell, — 
Whether  'twas  real  or  all  ideal, 
The  castle,  the  sea,  and  myself  as  well, 
I  was  not  sure,  I  could  not  tell, 
The  whole  so  like  a  vision  appeared, — 


CASTLE    PALO. 

When  near  me  upon  the  stones  I  heard 
A  footfall,  that  with  its  echo  woke 
The  sleeping  courtyard,  and  strangely  broke 
In  on  my  dream,  —  as  a  pool  is  stirred 
By  a  sudden  stone  in  its  silence  thrown, — 
And  turning  round,  at  my  side  I  found 
A  mild  old  man  with  a  snowy  beard. 

He  seemed  a  sort  of  servitor,    . 
By  the  drab  half-livery  he  wore  ; 
And  his  quiet  look  of  pride  subdued, 
Mixed  with  an  air  of  deference,  showed 
That  he  bore  an  office  of  service  and  trust. 
Something  there  was  in  him  fitted  my  mood, 
And  rhymed  with  the  ruin  and  sadness  and  rust 
Of  the  grim  old  castle,  —  a  sort  of  grace, 
Dreary  and  sad,  looked  out  of  his  face ; 
A  dimmed  reflection  it  seemed  to  have  caught 
From  a  nobler  mind  and  a  higher  thought ; 
As  if  he  had  held  a  trusted  place 
With  one  of  a  loftier  fortune  and  race. 


4  CASTLE    PALO. 

"This  is  a  dreary  and  desolate  spot," 
Turning  I  said  to  him  :    "Is  there  not 
Some  story  or  legend  of  the  dead 
That  hath  grown  about  it?"  —  He  shook  his  head, 
And  sighed,  —  and  pointing  his  veined  hand 
Through  a  rift  in  the  wall,  I  saw  below, 
A  dim  old  figure  upon  the  sand, 
That  musingly  wandered  to  and  fro 
Wrapped  in  a  cloak,  and  with  downcast  head ; 
"You  see  him,  that  is  the  Prince,"   he  said. 

"The  Prince?    why  surely  no  one  lives 
In  this  desolate  spot,  with  its  fever  air, 
So  deadly  although  it  seems  so  fair!" 
"  No,"   he  answered,   "  he's  only  here 
For  this  single  day  ;   but  every  year, 
Just  when  the  autumn  is  shaking  the  leaves, 
For  a  single  day,  come  rain  or  storm, 
You  will  meet  his  noble  and  princely  form, 
(For  a  prince  you  would  not  doubt  him  to  be, 
Old  as  he  is,  and  shaken  by  time, 


CASTLE    PALO. 

And  so  changed  from  what  he  was  in  his  prime,) 
Wandering  alone  along  the  sea, 
Musing  and  sighing  constantly. 

"  Why  ?   your  wondering  eyes  ask ;   well, 
If  you  command  me,  the  story  I'll  tell ; 
Would  you  be  pleased  to  stand,  or  sit 
On  this  old  stone  bench,  while  I  tell  you  it? 

"  Our  Villa,  perhaps,  you  never  have  seen ; 
It  lies  on  the  slope  of  the  Alban  hill ; 
Lifting  its  white  face,  sunny  and  still, 
Out  of  the  olives'  pale  grey  green, 
That,  far  away  as  the  eye  can  go, 
Stretch  up  behind  it,  row  upon  row. 
There,  in  the  garden,  the  cypresses,  stirred 
By  the  sifting  winds,  half-musing  talk, 
And  the  cool,  fresh,  constant  voice  is  heard 
Of  the  fountains  spilling  in  every  walk. 
There  stately  the  oleanders  grow, 
And  one  long  grey  wall  is  a-glow 


6  CASTLE    PALO. 

• 

With  golden  oranges  burning  between 

Their  dark  stiff  leaves  of  sombre  green, 

And  there  are  hedges  all  clipped  and  square, 

As  carven  from  blocks  of  malachite, 

Where  fountains  keep  spinning  their  threads  of  light, 

And  statues  whiten  the  shadow  there. 

And,  if  the  sun  too  fiercely  shine, 

And  one  would  creep  from  its  noonday  glare, 

There  are  galleries  dark,  where  ilexes  twine 

Their  branchy  roofs  above  the  head. 

Or  when  at  twilight  the  heats  decline, 

If  one  but  cross  the  terraces, 

And  lean  o'er  the  marble  balustrade, 

Between  the  vases  whose  aloes  high 

Show  their  sharp  pike-heads  against  the  sky, 

What  a  sight  —  Madonna  mia  —  he  sees  ! 

There  stretches  our  great  campagna  beneath, 

And  seems  to  breathe  a  rosy  breath 

Of  light  and  mist,  as  in  peace  it  sleeps,— 

And  summery  thunder-clouds  of  rain, 

With  their  slanting  spears,  run  over  the  plain, 


CASTLE    PALO.  i 

And  rush  at  the  ruins,  or  routed,  fly 

To  the  mountains  that  lift  their  barriers  high, 

And  stand  with,  their  purple  pits  of  shades 

Split  by  the  sharp-edged  limestone  blades, 

With  opaline  lights  and  tender  grades 

Of  color,  that  flicker  and  swoon  and  die, 

Built  up  like  a  wall  against  the  sky. 

"  And  this  is  our  villa,  where  years  ago, 
When  I  was  a  youth  and  just  had  come 
To  the  Prince's  service,  he  made  his  home 
For  the  summer  months  —  how  time  does  flow  ! 
I  was  in  love  then,  and  many  a  time 
To  Mariuccia  I  made  a  rhyme  ; 
For  I  was  a  poet  in  my  small  way, 
Love  makes  all  of  us  poets,  they  say  — 
Poor  Mariuccia!   well,  no  matter, 
She's  happier  now  I  must  suppose, 
But  she  seemed  to  be  happy  here  —  God  knows, 
And  we  do  not  rightly  understand  ; 
And  when  those  that  we  love  are  taken  away, 


CASTLE    PALO. 

'Tis  hard  to  see  why  we  should  stay  ; 
But  it  is  not  long  that  the  trembling  sand 
Will  shake  in  my  hour-glass,  and  —  Well !    well ! 
'Tis  not  my  story  I  meant  to  tell  — 
But  somehow  or  other  the  old  forms  rise, 
And  you'll  pardon  the  tears  in  these  old  eyes. 

"  I  was  a  youth  when  I  came  to  service 
With  the  old  Prince,  fifty  years  since  ; 
A  better  master  no  man  could  find; 
And  I  always  did  my  best  to  deserve  his 
Favor,  and  had  it ;   and  when  the  young  Prince 
Don  Paolo,  in  whom  his  mind 
And  heart  and  hope  were  wholly  centred, 
Grew  up  to  a  youth,  he  gave  me  charge, 
Having  trust  in  me,  to  wait  upon  him, 
And  gladly  I  did,  —  for  a  heart  more  large, 
Into  which  no  vulgar  thought  e'er  entered, 
Was  never  born  than  Don  Paolo's  was. 
He  had  but  few  of  the  follies  that  swim 
On  the  surface  of  youth,  mere  straws  and  dust 


CASTLE    PALO. 

That  sometimes  float  on  the  clearest  stream. 

And  I  grew  to  love  him,  and  he  to  trust  ; 

And  the  years  went  on  with  an  easy  fleetness  ; 

He  growing  and  ripening  every  day, 

And  strengthening  into  a  large,  broad  sweetness, 

And  day  by  day  childhood  gave  way 

In  his  dark  mild  eyes  to  a  look  of  pride 

And  manly  confidence  and  power, 

As  one  who  recognized  the  dower 

He  was  bom  unto,  —  and  I  at  his  side 

Could  not  but  feel  how  each  hour's  remove 

Parted  our  minds,  though  not  our  love. 

"  And  so  youth  swift  as  childhood  passed. 
And  he  grew  to  be  a  man  at  last, 
And  love,  like  a  careless  spark  of  fire, 
Dropped  in  the  forest's  leafy  ways, 
Touching  his  heart  when  heaping  full 
Of  drifting  wishes  and  dim  desire, 
In  a  moment  set  it  all  a-blaze. 
'  Twas  the  Donna  Giulia's  noble  air 


10  CASTLE    PALO. 

That  took  his  heart  so  by  surprise, 

With  her  large,  dark-shadowed  wondrous  eyes, 

And  velvet  olive  skin,  and  hair 

All  raven  dark  with  a  sheeny  glare, 

That  over  her  brow  so  low  and  square 

Was  parted  thick,  and  gleaming  lay, 

Heaped  low  behind  in  a  heavy  braid 

Of  serpent  folds  that  overweighed 

The  delicate  chin,  and  nestling  laid 

Close  up  to  the  small,  fine  ear,  where,  red 

As  her  rosy  lips,  two  coral  drops 

Against  her  ripe  cheek  dangled  and  played 

Just  where  its  rounded  outline  stops. 

"  She  came  from  Naples  one  summer  day, 
And  after  that,  he  was  always  away ; 
Or  if  he  came  home,  the  things  that  were  there 
Seemed  to  annoy  him,— there  was  no  rest  for  him;- 

Lonely  he  wandered,  —  hated  society, 

All  the  old  joys  had  lost  their  zest  for  him, 
All  things  at  home  brought  only  satiety. 


CASTLE    PALO. 


11 


Sometimes  across  the  country  he'd  gallop 

Madly  ;  and  then,  as  suddenly  pull  up 

And  loose  the  reins  of  his  horse,  all  reeking, 

And  pull  down  his  hat,  and  inwardly  speaking, 

Stare  at  the  ground  or  the  landscape  about  him, 

With  an  eye  that  saw  nothing  of  all  without  him, 

Lost  in  some  coil  of  confused  thinking  ; 

Then  with  a  jerk  the  bridle  clinking, 

His  spurs  in  the  flanks  of  old  Tebro  he'd  bury, 

As  if  from  some  thought  that  had  stung  him  to  hurry. 

"  The  Prince  and  the  Princess  were  blind  at  first, 
As  fathers  and  mothers  always  are  ; 
But  Donna  Anna,  Don  Paolo's  sister, 
Who  always  was  with  him,  suspected  the  worst, 
And  grew  jealous  and  peevish,  and  used  to  enlist  her 
Sharpest  wit,  when  she  found  that  she  missed  her 
Daily  friend ;  and  I  must  say 
That  better  game  and  a  sharper  shooter 
One  would  not  find  in  a  summer's  day. 
But  all  in  vain;   he  grew  muter" and  muter, 


12  CASTLE    PALO. 

Or  pleaded  such  plainly  fictitious  excuses 

To  be  alone  —  that  her  jesting  persistence 

She  changed  for  a  proud  and  silent  distance, 

As  if  she  were  wronged,  —  but  all  her  ruses 

Ne'er  in  the  least  availed  to  loose  his 

Obstinate  silence,  until  at  last,  her 

Patience  exhausted,  she  suddenly  cast  her 

Snowy  arms  over  Paolo's  shoulder, 

And  began  to  fondle  him,  kiss  him,  and  tease  him, 

Saying  she  never  now  could  please  him  ; 

That  he  used  to  love  her,  but  now  all  was  over, 

That  he  ceased  to  be  brother  because  he  was  lover, 

Ending  at  last  in  a  passionate  weeping, 

That  touched  poor  Paolo  so,  that  he  told  her, 

And  she  got  his  secret  into  her  keeping, — 

(And   such   keeping   it   was   with   this    Eve's    fair 

daughter 

As  a  very  fine  colander's  keeping  of  water, 
A  constant,  imperceptible  dripping)  — 
But  he  for  the  very  telling  grew  bolder, 
And  she  burnished  his  hopes  with  her  counsel  tender, 


CASTLE    PALO. 

And  ere  the  month  was  a  week's  tune  older 
The  Giulian  fortress  was  pleased  to  surrender. 

"  And  so  this  question  at  last  was  settled 
To  the  Prince's  and  Princess's  great  surprise, 
Who,  when  they  were  told  of  it,  opened  their  eyes 
With  wonder   and   pleasure,  —  and   contracts  were 

drawn, 

Putting  those  two  young  hearts  in  pawn  ; 
And  papers  were  signed, —  and  one  bright  dawn 
Donna  Giulia  rode  into  the  court 
With  Don  Paolo,  on  a  steed  high  mettled, 
And  reined  him  up  with  a  sniff  and  snort, 
And  glanced  around  with  her  sharp  wild  eyes 
Where   the   lightnings  were   scarcely  sheathed,  and 

dropped 
Into  Paolo's  arms  as  the  horses  stopped. 

"  The  Prince  and  Princess  came  forth  to  receive 

her ; 
And  there,  while  she  stood  at  Don  Paolo's  side, 


14  CASTLE    PALO. 

Who  gazed  at  her  with  a  smile  of  pride 

Softened  by  love,  as  if  he  defied 

The  world  to  spy  a  fault  in  his  bride, 

My  eyes  could  never  a  moment  leave  her ; 

Something  there  was  of  strange  and  wild, 

A  kind  of  hurried  and  startled  look 

In  her  long  black  eyes,  when  under  their  lashes 

They  suddenly  glanced,  — '•  like  the  gleam  of  a  brook, 

That  under  the  dense  woods  darkling  flashes 

As  it  sweeps  to  its  fall,  —  and  when  she  smiled, 

A  sudden  glance  like  summer  lightning 

Passed  over  her  face,  for  a  moment  bright'ning 

With  a  gleam  of  dazzling  teeth,  and  then 

Retaking  the  strange  weird  look  again, 

The  fine  lips  closely  and  nervously  tight'ning; 

Yet  there  was  something  of  winning  grace 

In  the  swaying  form  and  the  tremulous  face, — 

And  there,  as  she  stood  on  the  balustrade, 

Touched  with  gleams  of  sun  and  shade, 

While  a  sense  of  uneasy  consciousness 

Through  her  diaphonous  cheek  was  glowing, 


CASTLE    PALO.  15 

And  moulding  to  its  bashful  stress 

Her  every  movement,  despite  her  dissembling 

Of  an  easy  confidence,  that  I 

Felt  my  heart  drawn  uneasily 

Towards  her,  and  all  my  feelings  trembling 

Like  the  snowy  ostrich-plume  that  was  blowing 

And  rippling  on  her  hat,  where  it  set 

Fixed  by  a  large  blood-red  aigrette,— 

Though  I  could  not  explain  the  how  and  why. 

"  Soon  came  the  wedding,  with  festal  bells 
And  rustling  of  silk  and  stiff  brocade 
And  gleamy  satin,  and  muslin  thin 
As  woven  fog  that  the  spiders  spin; 
And  jewels  heaved  with  the  bosom  swells 
Of  stately  women,  whose  white  arms  bare 
Clinked  their  golden  manacles ; 
And  laughter  and  buzz  of  humming  talk 
Rose  confused  through  the  lighted  rooms, 
Where  the  air  was  thick  with  rich  perfumes, — 


16  CASTLE    PALO. 

And  the  chandeliers  sent  forth  their  glare 

Through  the  open  windows,  and  lit  the  stalk 

Of  the  fountain  that  spilled  in  the  open  walk, — 

And  music  through  all  the  reeling  hall 

Throbbed  to  a  hundred  dancing  feet, 

And  thrilled  through  the  marble-pillared  doors 

And  the  stately  pictured  corridors, 

Where  youth  and  beauty,  and  age  and  care, 

And  love  and  hate,  went  to  and  fro, 

Sweeping  the  flowers  in  the  vases  rare 

That  stood  on  every  marble  stair, — 

Or  talking  along  the  portico. 

And  noblest  of  all  the  nobles  there 

Went  our  Don  Paolo ! 

How  grand  and  glad  that  night  he  seemed, 

To  me  it  was  as  if  I  dreamed, 

When  I  thought  of  the  time  when  he  used  to  run 

With  his  hand  in  mine  along  the  walk, 

And  lisp  with  a  boyish  confident  talk, 

And  boast  of  the  little  nothings  he'd  done. 


CASTLE    PALO.  17 

"And  the  Donna  Giulia's  eyes,  like  mine, 
Gazed  after  him,  as  at  a  thing  divine  ; 
And  through  her  cheek,  her  feelings,  like  wine 
In  a  delicate  goblet,  glowed  and  shone. — 
I  could  have  laid  down  my  life  to  serve  her, 
When  I  saw  her  gaze  with  such  passionate  fervor 
After  his  figure  wherever  it  moved, 
As  if,  for  all  she  so  deeply  loved, 
She  dared  not  think  he  was  all  her  own. 

"  How  often  I  live  that  night  again, 
And  taste  its  joy  in  a  cup  of  pain ; 
How  I  remember,  while  I  was  staring 
In  at  the  door,  and  looking  at  him, 
Half  as  it  were  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
He  caught  my  eye,  and  forward  he  came 
With  that  old  frank  way  and  noble  bearing, 
And  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  placing,  he  said, 
4  Can  you  believe  it,  dear  friend, —  ('tis  true 
Dear  friend,  he  said,  —  those  were  his  words, 
The  very  words  he  said,  — '  Dear  friend,' 
2 


18  CASTLE    PALO. 

I  shall  remember  them  till  my  end,) 

That  'tis  twenty  long,  long  years  since  you 

Taught  me  to  talk;   they  seem  to  have  sped, 

To  me,  like  the  swiftest  flight  of  birds, 

Like  a  long,  long  flight  of  geese  ; '    and  a  smile 

Here  struck  with  its  sunlight  across  his  face, 

And  made  him  look,  for  a  moment's  space, 

Like  the  picture  of  the  great  old  Prince, 

Painted  by  Titian,  in  his  youth, 

As  I  have  so  often  seen  it,  while 

The  sunset  shone  on  it  where  it  hangs, 

Or  used  to  hang  some  ten  years  since, 

The  first  and  handsomest  of  a  score 

That  hang  along  the  corridor,— 

Well,  just  such  a  flash  of  sun  went  o'er 

His  face  as  he  spoke,  —  in  very  truth, 

I  should  have  thought  'twas  the  picture  alive, 

Only  it  had  not  the  armor  on, 

As  he  called  his  years  a  flight  of  geese - 

And,  '  Well,'  he  added,  '  dear  friend,  they've  gone, 

To  you  too  as  swiftly,  I  do  not  doubt; 


CASTLE    PALO.  19 

And  many  a  long  one  more  may  you  live, 
And  many  a  long  one  more  may  you  thrive 
Before  God  calls  you  to  his  peace ; 
But  to-day  shall  not  pass  away  without 
My  heartiest  thanks  and  my  heartiest  blessing 
For  all  your  kindness.' 
Then  suddenly,  without  waiting  an  answer, 
For  he  saw  that  something  my  heart  was  oppressing 
That  kept  me  from  speaking,  and  filled  with   blind 
ness 
My  eyes,  he  left  me  —  but  half  a  man,  sir  ! 

"  Then  off  they  went  on  their  wedding  journey, 
And  the  house  was  solemn  and  dull  enough  ; 
Donna  Anna  wished  and  sighed,  and  the  tough 
Old  Prince  was  a  little  stern  and  gruff, 
And  thinking  alone  of  his  son's  return,  he 
Went  wandering  aimless  about.     At  last, 
Just  as  the  time  was  nearly  passed 
When  Paolo  should  bring  back  his  bride, 
Came  a  letter  to  say,  that  he  should  go 


20  CASTLE    PALO. 

On  his  homeward  way,  for  a  day  or  so, 
Or  more,  should  it  afterwards  suit  their  whim, 
To  the  castle  old  by  the  salt  sea-side, 
And  I  was  sent  down  to  prepare  for  him. 

"  This  is  the  castle  here ; 
And  a  place  more  bleak  and  drear 
You  might  seek  without  finding  for  many  a  year. 
All  round,  wherever  the  eye  can  strain, 
Stretches  a  barren,  desolate  plain, 
Thinly  clad  with  wild,  fine  grasses, 
Through  which  the  free  wind  sighing  passes 
As  it  roams  alone,  —  with  here  and  there 
A  stunted  shrub,  to  make  more  bare 
Its  wildness;  or  on  some  swelling  knoll 
A  haycock's  grey  pyramid  and  pole, 
That  with  rain  and  sun  grows  old  and  bleaches,  - 
Till  miles  away  the  landscape  reaches 
To  those  climbing  hills,  where  blackened  patches 
Of  foliage  darken  on  their  sides, 
And  that  old  grey  cloud  lowering  rides. 


CASTLE    PALO.  21 

Seaward,  far  off,  there's  a  tree-fringed  tongue 
Of  land,  that  into  the  sea  outstretches, 
With  a  purple  swell  of  mountains  swung 
On  the  water's  run  as  far  as  you  see, 
Where  that  great  gull  flaps  so  heavily. 
But  just  turn  round,  can  any  thing  be 
More  lonely  and  wild  than  the  castle  is, 
With  its  four  round  turrets  and  grim  flat  face, 
Looking  over  the  sea  that  beats  at  its  base ; 
And  its  courtyard,  where  the  fountain  drips 
In  the  old  sarcophagus  under  the  steps, 
All  green  with  mould,  where  that  lizard  slips,— 
And  its  flapping  shutters,  and  windows  grated, 
Here  pierced,  and  there,  as  the  whim  dictated.— 
Can  any  thing  be  more  dreary  than  this  ? 
« 

"  You  see  it  now  in  a  sunny  time, 
And  this  Roman  sunshine  enchants  the  slopes 
Of  the  barren  plains,  as  youthful  hopes 
Turn  the  dreariest  day  to  rhyme  ; 
But  when  the  night  of  our  chill  Decembers 


22  CASTLE    PALO. 

Shuts  in  at  the  close  of  a  lowering  day, 

And    the    winds    roar    down    from    the    distance 

grey, 

And  rattle  the  shutters,  and  scatter  the  embers, 
As    they    howl  down    the    chimney's   blackened 

throat, 

And  over  the  old  sea-wall,  and  under 
Those  ruined  arches  with  thump  and  thunder, 
Whitens  the  surf  in  the  stormy  night ; 
And  the  cold  owl  hoots  in  the  mouldering  moat, 
And  the  wild  gull  screams  as  he  hurries  by, 
And  the  dog  sneaks  close  by  the  blaze  to  snore, 
And  starts  from  his  sleep  to  answer  again 
The  desolate  long-drawn  howl  of  pain 
Of  the  wolf-dog,  prowling  afar  on  the  moor. 
There  are  sounds  in  this  castle  enough  to  affright 
The  bravest  heart,  and  for  my  part,  I 
Know  that  the  ghosts  of  the  family 
Who    have    fallen    by    sword,   and    disease,    and 

murder, 
.On  such  terrible  nights  keep  watch  and  warder. 


CASTLE    PALO.  23 

"  Well,  the  family  here  came  down  to  meet 
Don  Paolo,  with  right  willing  feet, 
And  all  of  their  friends,  with  their  equipages, 
And  liveried  riders  and  liveried  pages, 
Came  down  to  pic-nic  in  the  castle  ; 
And  horses  snorted  and  neighed  in  the  court, 
And  all  was  hurry  and  gladness  and  bustle; 
And  the  banner  spread  on  the  turret  made  sport 
With  the  dallying  wind,  and  the  hall  so  wide 
Rang  with  voices  on  every  side  ; 
And  a  shout  of  welcome  rent  the  air 
As  Don  Paolo  leaped  from  his  curricle  there, — 
The  bells  on  his  horses  clinking  and  ringing, 
As   they  shook  their   proud  heads,   champing   and 

flinging 

White  flecks  of  foam  o'er  their  reeking  hide, — 
And  gave  his  hand  to  his  laughing  bride. 

"  So  they  talked  and  feasted  the  livelong  day, 
And  strolled  along  on  the  shingly  beach, 
And  roamed  o'er  the  castle,  and  danced  in  the  hall. 


24  CASTLE    PALO. 

And  made  the  Pifferari  screech 

With  their  swollen  pipes,  and  all  was  gay, 

With  music  and  mirth  and  festival. 

The  Contadine,  ah  !    they  were  so  glad, 

All  in  their  festal  costumes  clad, 

O'er  bursting  bosoms  the  busto  laced, 

Spanning  with  scarlet  their  ample  waist  ; 

Red  coral  collanas  around  their  neck, 

And  great,  long,  dangling  ear-rings  of  gold, 

And  the  stiff  tovaglia's  snowy  fold, 

Roofing  their  head  —  without  a  speck. 

'Twas  a  joy  to  see  them  dancing  there, 

To  the  rub  and  drone  of  the  tamburello, 

Rich  in  their  hearts,  and  without  a  care, 

As  they  whirled  in  the  endless  Saltarello, — 

Now  panting  and  blazing  with  heat  and  mirth, 

Now  resting  and  laughing,  or  jesting  and  quaffing 

The  blushing  wine,  of  which  none  was  a  scorner, 

That  spilled  from  the  barrel  set  in  the  corner; 

No  merrier  day  was  there  ever  on  earth. 


CASTLE    PALO.  25 

"  And  so  the  day  went  by,  and  some, 
Tired  of  merriment,  had  departed, 
And  some  still  lingered,  the,  younger-hearted, 
To  make  for  a  single  night  their  home 
In  the  castle,  and  journey  next  day  to  Rome 
With  the  bride  and  bridegroom  when  they  started ; 
And  the  twilight  greened  and  died  in  the  west, 
And  the  full  moon  over  the  swelling  breast 
Of  the  eastern  sea  with  a  red  glare  clomb  — 
And  some  were  wandering  far  away 
On  the  foam-dashed  sand,  and  others  stood 
On  the  battlements  of  the  castle  grey, 
Watching  the  moon  rise  over  the  flood, 
And  some  were  in  the  courtyard  there, 
And  groups  were  scattered  everywhere. 

"  I  was  standing  just  by  the  shore, 
As  it  were  in  a  sort  of  a  dream, 
Thinking  the  day  and  its  gladness  o'er, 
And  the  difference  betwixt  me  and  them, 
How  I  was  so  old,  and  poor,  and  grey, 


26  CASTLE    PALO. 

And  they  were  so  young,  and  rich,  and  gay, 

When  all  of  a  sudden  a  fearful  scream, 

Shrill  and  wild,  rang  in  my  ear, 

That  made  my  whole  scalp  rise  with  fear ; 

And  there,  as  I  stood,  a  figure  rushed  by, 

With  its  arms  flung  upward  against  the  sky, 

And    glancing   at  me,    (Good   God  !    were    those 

eyes 

Donna  Giulia's  eyes,  that  glared  at  me  so,) 
Uttered  another  thrilling  cry, 
Just  like  the  first, —  then  turned  with  a  dash, 
And  out  o'er  those  ruined  arches'  ledge, 
Wildly  fled  to  their  dizzy  edge, 
And  vanished ;  —  and  I  heard  a  splash, 
A  low  dull  splash,  in  the  waters  below. 

"  I  stood  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  a  trance, 
I  could  not  move  a  hand  or  limb, 
But  I  thought,  'tis  only  some  horrible  whim, 
That  could  not  have  been  Donna  Giulia's  glance;  — 
I  had  a  sense  as  if  I  stood 


CASTLE    PALO.  27 

Rooted  an  age  there,  or  ever  I  could 

Gather  and  fix  myself  to  one 

Definite  thought  to  act  upon. 

Oh !   it  is  easy  enough  to  see, 

Here  as  we  stand  so  quietly, 

That  the  thing  to  do  was  to  rush  and  save 

Whoever  it  was  from  a  watery  grave  ; 

But  all  my  thoughts  were  scattered  about, 

And  I  could  not  gather  them  up  again, 

And  my  senses  were  all  like  a  tangled  skein 

Of  night-mare  fancies  tied  in  a  knot. 

"  It  was  but  a  moment,  I  suppose, 
Though  it  seemed  a  whole  eternity, 
Before  I  was  down  in  the  swelling  sea, 
And  beating  through  its  great  green  walls, 
That  toppled,  quivering  with  flashing  snows, 
And  swimming  deep  where  the  moonshine  crawls, 
Just  there,  'neath  the  arch  at  the  end  of  the  pier, 
Grasping  after  white  folds  that  rose 
And  puffed,  and  sank,  until  at  last, 


28  CASTLE    PALO. 

After  the  agony  of  a  year, 

As  it  seemed  to  me, —  thank  God  it's  past  — 

I  dragged  a  pale  white  figure,  that  drooped 

Over  my  arm,  to  the  shoe-deep  sand, 

Trailing  on  it  a  lifeless  hand, 

And  felt  a  crowd,  that  around  me  stooped 

With  a  buzz  of  horror,  and  some  one  cried, 

'  'Tis  Donna  Giulia  —  'Tis  the  bride'  — 

Then  all  my  senses  staggered,  and  swooped 

Into  a  pit  of  blackest  night, 

And  my  skull  crushed  in  with  a  terrible  pain, 

And  stars  shot  round  me  a  fiery  rain, 

And  serpents  crawled  in  my  dizzy  brain, 

And  all  things  vanished  from  me  quite. 

"  How  it  was,  I  afterwards  learned, 
When  my  shattered  senses  returned ;  — 
Ah !    I  thought  there  was  too  much  light 
In  those  wild  eyes,  when  I  saw  them  first ; 
Something  too  sharp  and  overbright, 
As  of  a  thing  divine  that  was  curst  — 


CASTLE    PALO. 

While  they  were  sitting,  bridegroom  and  bride, 

On  yon  jutting  rock  by  the  water's  side, 

And  the  growth  of  their  young  love  tasting  o'er, 

And  she  was  lying  upon  his  breast, 

Gazing  up  at  the  rounded  moon, 

While  his  one  arm  was  round  her  thrown, 

And  their  lips  at  times  to  each  other  pressed, 

As  to  drink  each  other's  being  strove, 

Their  soft  eyes  humid  with  passionate  love  ; 

Suddenly  over  her  countenance 

Shot  a  change,  like  a  lightning's  glance, 

And  a  terrible  light,  wild  and  insane, 

Through  their  dilating  pupils  darted, 

That  seemed  with  hate  and  horror  to  strain. 

Up  to  her  feet,  as  if  stung,  she  started, 

And  through  her  nervous  lips  the  light 

Of  her  snowy  teeth  showed  to  the  night, 

As  she  uttered  that  fearful  maniac  scream 

That  startled  the  night  from  its  peaceful  rest, 

And  lifting  on  high  a  dagger's  gleam, 

She  held  concealed  in  her  inner  vest, 


30  CASTLE    PALO. 

Plunged  it  swift  in  her  lover's  breast, 
And  madly  fleeing  along  the  shore, 
Dashed  into  the  sea  —  as  I  told  you  before. 

"  When  I  awoke  from  my  blankness  and  swoon, 
All  was  still  in  the  castle  there, 
And  in  at  my  window  was  shining  the  moon, 
Mockingly,  with  its  face  so  fair  ; 
The  guests  were  gone,  the  surgeon  had  come, 
In  the  halls  was  heard  a  whispered  hum, 
And  careful  steps  were  coming  and  £oin£, 

-1  O  O  O/ 

And  listeners  stood  outside  her  door, 
That  an  anxious,  weary  aspect  wore, 
And  everything  else  was  sad  and  still, 
Save  now  and  then,  when  a  shriek  so  shrill 
That   it   scared   us,   and   stopped   our  blood   from 

flowing, 
Left  the  silence  stiller  than  before. 

"The  wound  in  his  breast  was  slight,  I  mean 
The  bodily  wound,  but  the  wound  unseen 


CASTLE    PALO.  31 

Was  ghastly ;   and  no  one  could  afterwards  know 

The  frank,  gay  hearted,  Don  Paolo. 

He  went  like  a  man  with  a  barb  in  his  heart, 

And  his  smile  was  so  dreary  it  made  one  weep, 

He  haunted  the  castle  and  would  not  depart, 

And  paced  his  room  long  nights  without  sleep, 

As  we  knew  by  the  rafters  overhead, 

That  creaked  with  his  fitful,  pausing  tread ; 

And  up  and  down  the  corridor, 

On  the  dusty  arras  that  heavily  sagged, 

And  its  fringe  o'er  the  pavement  rustling  dragged, 

As  the  night  wind   sucked   through   the    struggling 

door, 

And  made  the  hall-light  bend  and  flare, 
We  saw  his  uneasy  shadow  go, 
Shrink  and  shake,  and  rising  grow 
To  a  giant  shape,  till  it  darkened  o'er 
The  great  hall-window's  blear  white  square, — 
And  oft  as  he  wandered  up  and  down, 
Stretching  his  arms  against  the  wall, 
He  would  hide  his  face,  and  inwardly  groan, 


32  CASTLE    PALO. 

With  shivering  spasms  that  throbbed  through  all 

His  agonized  frame,  —  as  a  noble  oak 

That  totters  under  the  axe's  stroke, 

And  quivers  ah1  over  ere  it  fall  — 

Often,  at  length,  along  the  floor, 

Weary  with  pacing  to  and  fro, 

Upon  the  sill  of  her  chamber  door 

He  lav,  and  listened  her  voice  to  hear, 

In  an  agony  of  love  and  fear, 

Weeping  himself  away  in  woe, — 

Till  the  worn-out  body  yielded  at  last, 

And  out  of  the  pain  of  waking  passed ; 

But  never  dared  he  within  to  go, 

For  a  terrible  fever  in  body  and  brain, 

Through  her  thoughts  like  a  savage  demon  ranged, 

And  coiled  round  her  heart,  and  all  was  changed 

From  love  to  hate,  and  from  joy  to  pain. 

"  Once,  as  soon  as  his  wound  would  permit, 
He  dragged  to  her  door  his  trembling  frame, 
And  softly  entering,  breathed  her  name 


CASTLE   PALO.  33 

In  the  dearest  words  that  tongue  could  speak  ;  — 
But  no  sooner  heard  she  his  voice  than  she  knit 
Her  low,  dark  brows,  and  glaring  round 
With  wandering  eyes,  gave  a  fearful  shriek, 
Sprang  for  an  instant  to  the  ground, 
Then,  fell  in  a  long  and  deathlike  fit. 

"  Health  to  the  body  at  last  came  back, 
But  the  mind  had  lost  forever  the  track 
It  had  wandered  from,  —  in  a  forest  wild, 
Of  tangled  fancies,  she  roamed  alone 
Where  none  could  follow,  and  often  smiled, 
With  that  vacant  smile,  that  makes  one  groan, 
It  shows  how  utterly  all  has  flown. 
For  hours  she  stood  at  that  casement  there, 
And  drummed  on  the  pane  with  her  fingers  fair ; 
Or  sat  and  twisted  them  mornings  long, 
Singing  strange  scraps  of  disjointed  song, 
But  over  the  door-sill  she  never  would  go, 
And  never  would  see  Don  Paolo  — 
Often  with  patientest  schemes  he  strove, 
3 


34  CASTLE   PALO. 

To  call  her  back  to  the  thought  of  love, 

But  his  voice  alone  seemed  to  madden  her  brain. 

And  at  last  he  gave  it  up  as  vain. 

"  You  know  the  demon  that  haunts  the  air, 
That  sleeps  on  these  stretches,  so  bleak  and  bare. 
The  fever  that  shakes  us  with  fire  and  ice  — 
Well,  she  seemed  to  defy  it,  and  grew  more  fair. 
Breathing  it  in,  as  if  the  devil 
That  raged  in  her  brain  had  some  device 
To  shield  her  from  all  other  forms  of  evil :  — 
But  on  him,  with  sorrow  wasted  away, 
It  fell,  like  a  tiger,  on  its  prey, 
And  with  her  name  last  on  his  pallid  lips, 
That  dear,  brave  spirit,  went  its  way, 
Into  the  shadow  of  death's  eclipse, 
In  the  twilight  close  of  an  autumn  day. 

"  I  smoothed  those  dark  locks  on  his  brow,  — 
His  dome-like  brow,  which  death  had  made 
So  calm  and  grand,  and  full  of  peace  ;  — 


CASTLE    PALO.  35 

A  humble,  reverential  kiss, 

Upon  its  marble  cold  I  laid, 

And  a  prayer  of  tearful  thanks  I  prayed 

To  God,  who  had  given  him  release 

From  all  that  we  on  earth  must  know; 

For  I  could  not  look  at  that  face  so  still, 

So  still  and  calm,  but  it  seemed  to  say, 

'  Out  of  the  struggle  of  earthly  ill, 

Into  peace  and  love,  I  have  passed  away.' 

"  I  could  not  weep  for  him,  I  wept 
For  myself,  and  the  mother,  but  more -than  all 
For  that  old  man, — -for  a  terrible  pall 
Fell  over  him  then,  which  nothing  has  swept 
For  years  away,  and  nothing  will, 
Till  he  lies  by  his  son,  beneath  the  turf ;  — 
You  see  the  grave  there,  beside  the  wall, 
Where    he    told    us    to    lay    him,   in   sight    of  the 

surf; 

Well,  there  we  laid  him,  and  ever  since, 
On  the  day  he  died,  ('tis  this  day,)  the  Prince 


36  CASTLE   PALO.. 

Makes  to  the  grave  a  pilgrimage, 

And  weeps  the  tears  no  time  can  assuage. 

"  There  is  another  grave,  you  say,  — 
True,  — and  there,  but  a  year  ago, 
Her  worn-out  body  to  rest  we  lay, 
Where  the  grass  is  just  beginning  to  grow  ;  — 
An  hour  before  she  died,  she  smiled 
With  a  sane  sweet  smile,  her  nurses  said, 
Like  one  just  awaking  from  the  dead, 
And  whispered,   '  Dearest  Paolo  ; ' 
And  after  that,  she  was  calm  and  mild, 
And  spoke  as  if  all  the  years  that  had  passed, 
Since  she  had  loved  and  seen  him  last, 
Were  but  a  blank  and  terrible  dream, 
A  wall  of  darkness  that  shut  her  from  him- 
A  night's  wild  night-mare,  that  now  was  fled, — 
And  she  wondered  how  she  had  grown  so  weak, 
And  why  she  found  it  so  hard  to  speak, 
And  why  dear  Paolo  was  not  there  ; 
So  they  told  her  she  would  see  him  soon, 


CASTLE   PALO.  37 

And  she  turned  her  o'er,  with  a  placid  air, 
And  slid  into  death,  in  a  painless  swoon. 

"  But  look !   the  evening  air  grows  damp, 
And  the  dark  mists  creep  along  the  swamp, 
And  the  bat  is  flitting  to  and  fro, 
And  the  Prince,  there,  beckons  me  —  I  must  go." 

ROME,  Nov.  1853. 


THE     THREE     SINGERS 

44  WHERE  is  a  singer  to  cheer  me  ? 
My  heart  is  weary  with  sadness, 
I  long  for  a  verse  of  gladness  ! " 

Thus  cried  the  Shah  to  his  Vizier. 


He  sat  on  his  couch  of  crimson, 

And  silent  he  smoked,  and  waited, 
Till  a  youth,  with  face  elated, 

Entered,  and  bent  before  him. 

He  swung  the  harp  from  his  shoulder, 
And  ran  o'er  its  strings,  preluding, 
O'er  his  thought  for  a  moment  brooding, 

Then  his  song  went  up  into  sunshine. 


THE   THREE   SINGERS.  39 

It  leaped,  like  the  fountain,  breaking 

At  the  top  of  its  aspiration, 

It  fell  from  its  culmination, 
In  tears,  to  life's  troubled  level. 

He  sang  of  the  boundless  future, 

That  had  the  gates  of  the  morning, 
His  fancies  the  song  adorning, 

Like  pearls  on  a  white-necked  maiden. 

"  My  hope,  like  a  hungered  lion," 

He  sang,   "  for  its  prey  is  panting  ; 
Oh  !    what  is  so  glad,  so  enchanting, 

As  Manhood,  and  Fame,  and  Freedom. 

"  To  youth  there  is  nothing  given, 

The  fruit  on  the  high  palm  groweth, 
And  thither  life's  caravan  goeth, 

For  rest  and  delight  in  its  shadow." 


40  THE   THREE    SINGERS. 

He  ceased,  —  and  the  Shah,  half  smiling, 
Beckoned,  and  said,  "  Stay  near  me, 
Your  song  hath  a  charm  to  cheer  me  ; 

Ask !    what  you  ask  shall  be  given. 

"  Now  bring  me  that  other  singer, 
That  ere  I  was  born,  enchanted 
The  world  with  a  song  undaunted  ! " 

They  went,  —  and  an  old  man  entered. 

His  forehead,  beneath  his  turban, 

\Yas  wrinkled,  —  he  entered  slowly, — 
Bending  —  and  bending  more  lowly, 

Waited,  —  the  Shah  commanded  — 


"  Sing  me  a  song ;  "•  his  fingers 

Over  the  light  strings  trembled, 

And  the  sound  of  the  strings  resembled 

The  wind,  in  the  cypresses  grieving. 


THE   THREE    SINGERS.  41 

He  sang  of  the  time  departed, 

In  his  song,  as  in  some  calm  river, 
Where  temples  and  palm-trees  quiver, 

But  pass  not  —  his  youth  was  imaged. 

"  Our  shadow,  that  lay  behind  us, 

Ere  the  noonday  sun  passed  o'er  us, 
Now  darkens  the  path  before  us, 

As  we  walk  away  from  our  morning. 

"  Oh !   where  are  the  friends  that  beside  us 
Walked  in  the  garden  of  roses ; 
The  dear  head  no  longer  reposes 

On  the  bosom,  to  feel  the  heart's  beating. 

"  Oh,  Life  !    'tis  a  verse  so  crooked, 
On  Fate's  sharp  scimitar  written, 
And  Joy  —  a  pomegranate  bitten 

By  a  worm  that  preys  at  its  centre." 


42  THE   THREE    SINGERS. 

He  ceased,  and  the  harp's  vibration 

Throbbed  only,  —  a  slow  tear  twinkled 
On  the  rim  of  those  eyes,  so  wrinkled, 

And  the  fountain  renewed  its  plashing. 

The  Shah  was  silent  —  a  dimness 

Clouded  his  eyes  —  from  his  finger 
He  drew  a  great  ruby  —  the  singer 

Bowed  low  at  this  token  of  honor. 


At  last,  from  his  musing  arousing, 

He  spoke,  "  Is  there  none  you  can  bring  me 
The  praise  of  the  present  to  sing  me, 

Seek  him  —  and  bring  him  before  me." 


He  waited  —  the  morning  —  the  noonday 
Passed  —  at  last,  when  the  shadows 
Lengthened  on  gardens  and  meadows, 

A  poor,  maimed  cripple,  they  brought  him. 


THE   THREE    SINGERS. 

"  What !  you  sing  the  praise  of  the  Present ; 
You,  by  Fortune  and  Fate  so  forsaken, 
What  charms  can  the  Present  awaken?" 

"  I  love,  and  am  loved,"    was  the  answer. 


IN    THE    WEST. 

THE  minster  clock  has  struck  for  ten, 
The  streets  are  free  from  maids  and  men, 

.The  hour  has  come,  and  where  —  are  you? 

The  lights  that  in  the  chambers  shone, 
Have  slowly  vanished,  one  by  one  ; 

But  one  still  shines,  and  there  —  are  you ! 

Put  out  your  light,  and  come,  my  love  ! 
The  wind  sighs  in  the  leaves  above, 

And  I  beneath  them  sigh  —  for  you  ! 

The  little  brook  talks  all  alone, 
Unto  the  long,  flat,  mossy  stone, 

Where  silently  I  wait  —  for  you  ! 


IN   THE   WEST.  45 

I  see  the  swiftly  sliding  star, 
I  hear  the  watch-dog  bark  afar, 

While,  longing  here,  I  wait  —  for  you. 

Was  that  a  step  upon  the  grass  ? 
No  !    'twas  the  wind-stirred  leaves  —  alas  ! 
Dear  love,  I  wait,  I  wait  —  for  you. 

Oh,  haste  !    the  night  is  going  by, 
The  streets  are  still,  and  not  an  eye 

Is  watching,  love,  but  mine,  —  for  you ! 


IN    THE    EAST. 

DROP  a  rosebud  from  the  grating, 

Just  at  twilight,  love, 
Underneath  I  shall  be  waiting, 

And  will  glance  above  ; 
If  you  hear  a  whistle  answer, 

All  below  is  right, 
Drop  into  my  arms,  we'll  vanish 

Far  into  the  night. 

At  the  gate,  the  slaves  arc  ready 

With  the  palanquin  — 
Ah  !    my  heart  is  so  unsteady, 

Till  our  flight  begin  — 
Through  the  level  tombs  we'll  hurry, 

Leaving  death  behind, 
And  in  Shiraz'  morning  splendor, 

Love  and  Life  we'll  find. 


THE    LESSON    OF 
MONSIGNORE     GALEOTTO. 

"  Now,  certainly,  he  was  a  fayre  prelat." — CHAUCER. 

LET  us  walk  up  this  alley,  in  the  shade 

Of  the  green  ilexes,  whose  boughs  have  made 

An  arching  gallery  of  cool  privacy. 

The  garden's  hot  —  the  sun  has  got  so  high 

It  burns  into  our  faces  o'er  the  wall 

Of  our  clipped  hedges,  and  begins  to  fall 

So  fierce  on  the  white  pebbles  of  the  walk, 

Its  glare  is  painful  —  We  shall  better  talk 

Beneath  the  ilexes,  —  where  it  is  cool. 

Well,  as  I  said,  Philippo,  you  must  school 
Your  temper,  must  not  speak  so  harsh  and  quick  ; 
Men  are  not  driven,  ox-like,  with  a  stick, 
Nor  goaded  to  compliance  with  our  will ; 


48  MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO. 

They  must  be  humored,  flattered  —  seeming  still 
To  yield  to  them,  with  humble  air  admit 
Their  power  of  argument,  their  sense,  their  wit,— 
But,  if  you  might  suggest,  that  so  and  so, 
Perhaps,  would  make  a  difference,  although 
You  would  not  place  at  all  your  casual  thought 
Against  their  better  judgment  .  .  .  Men  are  caught 
By  springes  like  to  these  —  they  can  be  tricked 
Always,  by  some  decoy,  —  to  contradict 
Is  simply  stupid  —  and  the  dogmatist 
Makes  one,  half  ready  to  agree,  resist. 

I  cannot  bear  that  sharp  decisive  way 

With  which  you  speak  —  you  think  so  —  but  why 

say, 

Though  true,  exactly  what  you  think  or  feel ; 
Who  plays  his  cards  well,  must  and  should  conceal 
His  hand  from  his  antagonist,  —  and  all 
Are  our  antagonists  in  life  —  A  brawl 
Is  a  fool's  madness — but,  no  less  a  fool 
Is  he  who  know3  not  how  his  tongue  to  school, 


MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO.  49 

So  as  to  seem,  at  least,  to  give  assent 

Unto  the  wit,  if  not  the  argument. 

Silence  is  golden  —  always  seek  to  know 

The  other's  thoughts  and  views  before  you  show 

Your  own  —  you   then   have    ground   whereon   to 

act, 

Not  blindly,  but  with  wisdom's  weapon,  tact. 
There  is  no  use  to  lie  —  oh,  that  indeed, 
In  the  long  run  is  sure  not  to  succeed  ; 
Lying  is  gross  —  yet,  I  am  bound  to .  say, 
That  truth  sometimes  may  lead  us  most  astray; 
When  rightly  used  it  is  the  best  of   charms, 
When  wrongly,  the  most  dangerous  of  arms,  — 
Not  for  all  time  and  place  —  for  instance,  you 
Foil  your  own  aims,  sometimes,  by  being  true 
To    your    quick    impulse ;  —  where 's    the    use    to 

speak 

The  truth,  when  speaking  it  will   make  you  weak  ? 
Wait  for  occasion  —  oft  with  a  false  key 
We  take  the  stronghold  of  the  enemy, 
Which,  if  we  ventured  rashly  to  attack, 
4 


50  MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO. 

With  angry  force  would  rise  to  beat  us  back  ; 
Let  your  mind  run  before  your  tongue,  —  a  man 
Who  has  a  tongue  should  also  have  a  plan. 

You  are  too  honest,  dear  Philippo  —  trust 
The  world  too  freely;   you  are  young,  and  must 
Curb  those  warm  impulses  that  from  your  heart 
Start  wild,  and  train  them  down  by  thought  and 

art  ; 

Must  learn  your  daring  spirit  to  repress  ; 
Submit  to  rule  and  law,  and  question  less. 
You  claim  your  single  right  of  thought,  deny 
The  Church  its  dogma  and  authority, 
Cry,    "  Truth  is  living,  absolutely  needs 
Freedom,  and  only  petrifies  in  creeds ; " 
But  truth  is  not  a  veering  vane,  that  goes 
A  different  way  with  every  wind  that  blows, 
A  mere  kaleidoscopic  glass,  that  takes 
New  hues,  new  figures,  with  each  hand  that  shakes. 
No  !  but  a  fountain  once  to  man  unsealed, 
Whose  living  waters  God  himself  revealed 


MONSIGtfORE    GALEOTTO.  51 

Unto  the  Church,  —  whose  forms,  like  vases,  give 
But  shape  to  the  pure  waters  they  receive. 

You  "  think,"  --  well,  would  you  with  your  single 

thought 

Reverse  what  all  the  Fathers  wise  have  taught, 
After  long  centuries'  thinking,  and  confront 
Your  eager  judgment  to  the  opposing  brunt 
Of  their  slow  wisdom? — Dear  Philippo,  see 
How  we  have  thriven  on  our  policy, 
We  work  together,  not  for  separate  pelf, 
As  you  would  act,  you  only  for  yourself, 

But  to  exalt  the  Church  — the  Church! is  not 

That  thought  alone  worth  every  other  thought? 

And  you  have  talents  that  might  raise  you  high, 

Will  raise  you,  if  you  will  not  so  defy 

Those  wise  injunctions  we  must  all  obey, 

Hard  though  it  seem  at   first  to  all.     Pray,  pray 

For  more  humility.     Some  future  day, 

When  from  that  brow  its  curls  are  worn  away, 

The  scarlet  cap  its  baldness  shall  conceal, 


52  MOXSIGNOKE    GALEOTTO. 

The  triple  crown,  perhaps — nay!    nay!    you  feel, 
I  know,  at  present,  as  all  young  men  do 
To  whom  the  world  and  thought  itself  is  new, 
You  rather  choose  for    "  Liberty  and  Truth," 
For  so  you  name  the  Folly  we  call  Youth, 
Than  wed  obedience,  crush  that  fierce  will  down, 
And  hold  Rome's  keys,  and  wear  the  triple  crown. 

Well,  'tis  a  grand  ambition  —  Liberty, 

If  it  were  possible — yet,  trust  to  me, 

It  is  not  possible  ;  —  obedience  —  law  — 

Self-abnegation — these  alone  can  draw 

The  whole  world  after  them.     Where  all  agree, 

Work  with  one  will,  one  hope,  one  energy, 

Blindly  obedient,  nothing  can  resist  ;    but  what 

Is  Liberty  but  anarchy  of  thought,  — 

Each  separate  will  of  that  great  swarming  mass 

You  call  the  people,  struggling  to  surpass 

All  other  wills,  and  in  blind  ignorance 

Wanting  —  yet  never  knowing  what  it  wants. 

The  beasts  alone  are  free,  in  your  grand  sense  ; 


MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO. 

But  man's  true  freedom  is  obedience, 

Where  all  wills  bend  unto  a  settled  law, 

A  single  purpose,  and  together  draw 

For  some  high  object  —  Ah  !    your  liberty, 

Philippe  dear,  is  but  a  troubled  sea, 

Vexed  with  wild  currents,  lashed  by  frequent  gales, 

Where  the  best  ship  must  down  with  masts  and  sails, 

Fling  its  rich  cargo  to  the  engulfing  waves, 

And  creep  at  last  to  port,  with  what  it  saves. 


Besides  !   what  gain  the  nations  that  are 
Rest,  joy,  content  ?  —  No,  everywhere  you  see 
The  freest  people  the  unhappiest  ; 
Full  of  desires  that  goad  them  from  their  rest, 
They  crowd,  and  push,  and  fight,  and  end  at  last 
In  anarchy  and  luxury  ;  —  all  the  past 
Tells  the  same  story  —  all  the  future  will  — 
Only  the  Church  abides  through  good  and  ill. 

Compare  with  this  the  peaceful,  studious  life, 
Leading  so  softly,  undisturbed  by  strife, 


54  MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO. 

To  power,  for  great,  good  ends,  that  here  we  find 
In  the  still  cloisters  of  the  Church,  —  the  mind 
Here    stores    its   thought,   here   trains   its   highest 

powers 

To  highest  purposes ;  —  these  lives  of  ours 
Fit  us  to  move  the  world,  and  with  the  skill 
Of  subtle  thought  subdue  unto  our  will 
Its  mighty  strength.     The  world  —  the  great  brute 

wrorld, 

That  bends  against  us  its  flat  bull-front,  curled 
With   strength,    and   bellows,   and   its   great   horns 

shakes, 

Blind  with  the  dust,  deaf  with  the  noise  it  makes, 
Is  game  that  we  with  easy  skill  control, 
Sure  of  our  power,  and,  as  we  will,  cajole, 
Shaking  the  scarlet  that  it  hates,  and  thus 
Letting  it  butt  a  rag  instead  of  us, — 
Always  secure  when  we  would  end  the  play, 
With  our  fine  rapier  point  to  find  the  way. 
You  have  ambition,  —  have  it  then  to  rule 
This  world — to  make  the  beast  your  game,  your  tool, 


MONSIGNORE   GALEOTTO.  55 

To  ring  his  nose,  and  train  him  to  your  hand, — 
For  objects  high,  of  course,  we  understand. 

Love  !    'tis  a  child's  disease,  that  passes  soon, 

Like  mumps  or  measles  —  'tis  a  little  tune 

We  play  upon  a  pipe  when  we  are  young, — 

A  honey  bee,  by  which  we're  often  stung 

As  soon  as  we  have  caught  it,  —  nay,  to  speak 

In  serious  phrase,  Philippo,  it  were  weak 

To  throw  away  a  life's  great  hopes  for  love ; 

I  know  these  hot  desires  will  sometimes  prove 

Too  strong  for  us — the  Church  takes  note  of  that, 

And  covers  with  its  veil  of  silence  what 

It  knows  weak  man  will  have.     It  shuts  its  eyes 

To  human  nature's  frail  necessities. 

If  it  be  done  in  seemly  secrecy, 

And  without  scandal,  shall  we  peep  to  see 

Our  brother's  weakness  ?    Therefore,  do  not  doubt, 

If  you  be  careful,  you  may  still  play  out 

The  little  role  of  love  —  for  it  were  wise 

That  wTe  should  take  man  in  his  actual  guise ; 


MONSIGXORE    GALEOTTO. 

The  self-same  rule  will  not  apply  to  men 

As  to  pure  angels  without  sin  —  what  then? 

The    Church    does    all    it    can.      These    passions, 

loo, 

Are  not  without  their  use,  if  we  subdue 
Their  exercise  to  proper  ends,  —  and  see, 
They  give  us  oftentimes  a  secret  key 
To  help  great  projects  on.     So,  as  I  said, 
Love  is  not  thoroughly  prohibited, 
Unless  it  lead  to  scandal.     But,  suppose 
You  will  have  marriage ;    then,  indeed,  you  close 
The  Church's  door,  and  for  a  whim,  to  last 
A  month  or  so,  your  future  life  you  blast. 
Take  my  advice,  —  drain  nothing  to  its  lees, 
Only  a  tasted  pleasure  long  can  please ; 
What  we  desire  is  grateful  while  desired, 
Possessed,    'tis    worthless  —  Ah!    we    soon    grow 

tired, 

With  the  continuous  every-day  of  what 
Once  seemed  so  charming,  when  we  had  it  not ; 
And  wives,  Philippo,  wives  are  ... 


MONSIGNORE    GALEOTTO.  0< 

Hark  !    'twas  noon, 

The  clock  struck  then  — Per  Bacco,  boy,  how  soon 
This  hour  has  passed  —  and  I  shall  be  too  late 
For  the  Marchesa  —  otherwise  I'd  wait  — 
She  has  some  scheme,  I  think  of  charity, 
On  which  she  wishes  to  consult  with  me. 
Addio,  then  —  and  think  on  what  I've  said,— 
The  heart  must  be  submissive  to  the  head. 

May,  1855. 


ON    THE    DESERT. 

ALL  around, 

To  the  bound 

Of  the  vast  horizon's  round, 

All  sand,  sand,  sand  — 

All  burning,  glaring  sand- 

On  my  camel's  hump  I  ride, 
As  he  sways  from  side  to  side, 
With  an  awkward  step  of  pride, 

And  his  scraggy  head  uplifted,  and  his  eye 
so  long  and  bland. 

Naught  is  near, 

In  the  blear 

And  simmering  atmosphere, 
But  the  shadow  on  the  sand, 
The  shadow  of  the  camel  on  the  sand  ; 


ON   THE   DESERT.  59 

All  alone,  as  I  ride, 
O'er  the  desert's  ocean  wide, 
It  is  ever  at  my  side  ; 

It  haunts  me,  it  pursues  me,  if  I  flee,  or  if 
I  stand. 

Not  a  sound, 

All  around, 

Save  the  padded  beat  and  bound 
Of  the  camel  on  the  sand, 
Of  the  feet  of  the  camel  on  the  sand. 

Not  a  bird  is  in  the  air, 

Though  the  sun,  with  burning  stare, 

Is  prying  everywhere, 

O'er  the  yellow  thirsty  desert,  so  desolately 
grand. 

Not  a  breath 
Stirs  the  death 

Of  the  desert, — nor  a  wreath 
Curls  upward  from  the  sand, 


ON   THE   DESERT. 

From  the  waves  of  loose,  fine  sand  — 
And  I  doze,  half  asleep, 
Of  the  wild  Sirocs  that  sweep 
O'er  the  caravans,  and  heap 

With  a  cloud  of  powdery,  dusty  death,  the 
terror-stricken  band. 

Their  groans 

And  their  moans 

Have  departed,  —  but  their  bones 
Are  whitening  on  the  sand  — 
Are  blanching  and  grinning  on  the  sand, — 

Oh,  Allah !    thou  art  great ! 

Save  me  from  such  a  fate, 

Nor  through  that  fearful  strait 
Lead  me,  thy  basest  servant,  unto  the 
Prophet-land. 


THE    BEGGAR. 

I  AM  but  a  beggar, 

A  wretch  and  an  outcast ; 

No  health  in  my  body, 

No  joy  in  my  spirit ; 

Despised  and  neglected, 

Lame,  crooked,  and  wretched, 

I  crawl  at  thy  gateway 

To  wait  for  thy  coming, 

For  I  love  thee,  my  glory, 
My  life,  my  beloved ! 

I  wait  for  thy  coming 
All  night  at  thy  portals, 
In  my  rags  I  await  thee, 
In  sorrow  and  longing. 
I  watch  the  lights  shining 


62  THE    BEGGAR. 

And  moving  above  me, 

And  my  heart  goes  up  to  thee 

In  loving  and  longing, 

For  I  love  thee,  my  gladness, 
My  hope,  my  beloved ! 

I  wait  till  thy  portals 
Swing  wide  in  the  morning, 
And  thou  with  thy  splendors 
Before  us  appearest, 
Desiring,  yet  fearing, 
The  sword  of  thy  glances  ; 
For  how  shall  the  outcast 
Dare  gaze  at  thy  glory  ; 

Yet  I  love  thee,  my  gladness, 
My  life,  my  beloved  ! 

What  have  I  to  give  thee 
That  thou  shouldst  accept  me  ? 
How  dare  I  to  hope,  then, 
That  thou  wilt  not  spurn  me  ? 


THE   BEGGAR.  63 

No  goodness  —  no  beauty 
Is  mine  —  and  no  riches, 
But  a  human  heart  only 
That  praises  and  trembles ; 

For  I  love  thee,  my  gladness, 

My  life,  my  salvation  ! 

With  the  wretched  I  wander, 
My  life  is  uncleanly, 
I  yield  to  temptation, 
And  drink  at  the  tavern ; 
Yet  in  the  still  foot-paths 
Of  thought  I  adore  thee, 
In  the  filth  of  my  vices 
I  kneel  down  to  praise  thee  ; 

For  I  love  thee,  my  gladness, 

My  life,  my  salvation ! 

Each  law  of  thy  kingdom 
I've  wilfully  broken ; 
Without,  I  am  filthy, 


<>4  THE   BEGGAR. 

Within,  I  am  beastly  ; 

I  ask  not  for  justice, 

For  that  would  destroy  me  ; 

I  cry  for  forgiveness, 

Oh !  save  and  forgive  me  ; 

For  I  love  thee,  and  fear  thee, 
My  life,  my  salvation ! 


THE     CONFESSIONAL. 

FORGIVE  me,  Father !    Those  were  wild,  bad  words. 
From  the  foul  bottom  of  my  heart  stirred  up 
By  agitation.  —  Turn  not  thus  away, 
I  will  repent  —  I  think  I  do  repent, — 
Yet  who  can  answer,  when  temptation  comes, 
For  calm  resolves.     When  windy  passion  swells 
The  turbulent  thoughts,  our  weakly-builded  dykes 
Burst,  and  the  overbearing  sea,  let  through, 
In  one  wild  rush  pours  in,  and  swirls  away 
Our  boasted  resolutions,  like  light  chips. 

Yet,  holy  Father  !    give  me  now  your  hand, 
And  I  will  try  to  think  of  youth  and  home, 
And  violets  in  spring,  and  all  sweet  things 
I  used  to  love,  when  I  was  innocent, 
5 


66  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

For  they  may  calm  me  —  Yet,  no !    no  !    'tis  vain ! 
The  great  black  wall  of  yesterday  shuts  out 
All  other  yesterdays  that  went  before  ; 
I  cannot  overpeer  its  horror  and  look  down 
Into  the  peaceful  garden-plot  beyond. 

I  was  not  all  to  blame.     You,  who  have  heard 
So  many  tales  of  passion,  lean  your  ear, 
And  I  will  tell  you  mine  —  but  make  the  sign, 
The  blessed  sign  of  the  cross,  ere  I  begin. 

'Twas  twilight  —  and  the  early  lighted  lamps 
Were  nickering  down  into  the  Arno's  tide 
While  yet  the  daylight  lingered  in  the  skies, 
Silvering  and  paling  —  when  I  saw  him  first. 
I  was  returning  from  my  work,  and  paused 
Upon  the  Bridge  of   Santa  Trinita, 
To  rest,  and  think  how  fair  our  Florence  is, 
How  sweet  the  air  smelt  after  that  close  room, 
And  how  privation,  like  a  darkened  tube, 
Made  joy  the  sweeter,  through  its  darkness  seen. 


THE    CONFESSIONAL.  67 

And  I  remember,  o'er  the  hazy  hills 
Far,  far  away,  how  exquisitely  fair 
The   twilight   seemed   that  night  —  my   heart   was 

soft 
With  tender  longings,  misted  with  a  dim 

Sad  pleasure  —  as  a  mirror  with  the  breath 

(Ah  !   never  will  those  feelings  come  again.) 

I  wondered  if  the  thronging  crowd  that  passed, 

Felt  half  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  hour  ; 

And  I  was  in  a  mood  to  take  a  stamp 

From  any  passing  chance,  —  even  like  those  clouds 

That  caught  the  tenderest  thrill  of  dying  light, 

When  by  some  inward  sense,  I  know  not  what, 
I  felt  that  I  was  gazed  at,  drawn  away 
By  eyes  that  had  a  strange  magnetic  will, 
And  so  I  turned  from  those  far  hills  to  see 
A  stranger;  —  no!    even  then  he  did' not  seem 
A  stranger  —  but  as  one  I  once  had  known, 
Not  here  in  Florence,  not  in  any  place, 
But  somehow  in  my  spirit  known  and  seen, 
Elsewhere,  I  know  not  where,  perhaps  in  dreams  ; 


68  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

I  felt  his  eyes  were  staying  upon  me, 

And  a  sweet,  serious  smile  was  on  his  mouth, 

Nor  could  I  help  but  look  and  smile  again. 

I  know  not  what  it  was  went  to  and  fro 

Between  us  then,  in  that  swift  smile  and  glance : 

But  something  went  that  thrilled   me  through  and 

through, 

And  fluttered  all  my  thoughts,  as  when  a  bird 
Shivers  with  both  his  wings  some  peaceful  pool : 
We  neither  spoke  —  but  that  quick  clash  of  souls 
Had  struck  a  spark  that  set  me  all  a-fire. 

With  what  a  turbulent  heart  I  traversed  then 
The  Bridge,  and  plunged  into  the  narrow  streets, 
Heavy  with  shadows,  till  I  gained  my  room ; 
Yet  there  I  could  not  rest  —  I  leaned  from  out 
My  balcony  abbve  the  street  and  gazed 
At  every  passer-by,  the  evening  long, 
Till  midnight  struck,  and  all  the  humming  crowd 
Poured  home  from  theatre  and  opera,— 
In  hopes  to  see  him.     Silent  grew  the  streets, 


THE    CONFESSIONAL.  69 

Save  here  and  there,  where  rang  the  echoing  feet 
Of  some  late  walker  singing  as  he  went. 
The  few  lamps  on  the  lonely  pavement  glared, 
The  still  stars  stood  in  the  dark  river  of  night, 
That  flowed  between  the  house-tops  far  above, 
And  all  was  rest. — At  last  I  lit  my  lamp, 
And  with  a  prayer,  (I  never  prayed  till  then, 
It  seemed  to  me  —  so  fervently  I  prayed,) 
Crept  to  my  bed.     Half  dreaming,  I  rehearsed 
The  evening  scene  —  and  saw  again  his  smile  — 
And  wondered  who  he  was  —  and  if  again 
We  ere  should  meet  —  and  what  would  come  of  it  — 
Until  at  last  I  wore  away  to  sleep, 
Almost  when  morning  was  upon  the  hills. 

And    days  went   by — and   that    one  thought  of 

him 
Ran    through    thought's    labyrinth,    like    a    silver 

clue. 

Waking,  I  did  not  see  my  work;  I  sewed 
Loves  broidery  in  with  every  stitch  I  made  ; 


70  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

And  I  grew  silent,  sad,  and  spiritless, 

And  ceased  to  talk  and  jest  as  I  was  wont, 

Until  Beata  laughed  at  me,  and  said, 

Pointing  me  out  to  all  the  other  girls, 

"  Santa  Maria !   Nina  is  in  love  !  " 

And  all  of  them  looked  up  at  me  and  laughed  ; 

I  could  have  struck  her — but  I  had  to  laugh. 

At  last  the  Festa  of  the  Madonna  came, 
And  in  the  costume  of  my  native  town, 
(I  am  an  Albanese,  as  you  know,) 
I,  and  Beata,  and  the  other  girls, 
Went  to  the  Duomo,  as  we  always  do, 
To  see  the  grand  procession  and  hear  mass  ; 
And  there,  I  kneeling  prayed  for  him  and  me. 
I  heard  the  laboring  organ  in  the  dome 
Struggle  and  groan,  and  stopping  short,  give  place 
Unto  the  Bishop's  harsh  and  croaking  chant ; 
I  heard,  at  intervals,  the  crowd's  reponse 
Rising  around  me  with  a  muffled  roar, 
The  steaming  censer  clicking  as  it  swung, 


THE    CONFESSIONAL.  71 

The  sharp,  quick  tinkle  of  the  bell ;  at  last 
The  whole  crowd  rustling  sank  upon  its  knees, 
And    silence    reigned — the    host    was    raised  —  a 

strain 

Of  trumpets  sounded  —  and  the  mass  was  o'er  ; 
My  heart  was  full  —  I  lingered  when  they  went, 
Beata,  Maddalena,  Bice,  all, 
And  leaned  against  a  pillar  in  the  choir, 
Where  Michael  Angelo's  half-finished  group 
Stands  in  the  shadow  —  I,  in  shadow  too- 
How  long  I  stood  I  know  not,  but  a  voice 
That  made  my  blood  stop,  whispered  me  at  last. 
I  knew  that  it  was  he.     What  could  I  do  ? 
He  knew  I  loved  him  —  and  I  knew  he  loved. 
He  said  to  me  ....  Ah !   no,  I  cannot  say 
What  words  he  said,  to  me  they  were  not  words  ; 
But  ere  we  parted  it  was  late  at  night, 
And  I  was  happy,  —  oh,  so  happy  then,— 
It  seemed  as  if  this  earth  could  never  add 
One  little  drop  more  to  the  joy  I  owned, 


72  THE   CONFESSIONAL. 

For  all  that  passionate  torrent  pent  within 

My  heart  had  found  its  utterance  and  response. 

lie  was  Venetian,  and  that  radiant  hair 
We  black-haired  girls  so  covet,  haloed  round 
His  sunny  northern  face  and  soft  blue  eyes. 
I  know  not  why  he  loved  me  —  me  so  black, 
With  this  black  skin,  that  every  Roman  has, 
And  these  black  eyes,  black  hair,  that  I  so  hate. 
Why  loved  he  not  Beata?  —  she  is  fair. — 
But  yet  he  often  took  these  cheeks  of  mine 
Between  his  hands,  and  looking  in  my  eyes, 
Swore  that  Beata's  body  was  not  worth 
One  half  my  finger  —  and  then  kissed  me  full 
Upon  the  mouth  as  if  to  seal  his  oath. 
Ah  !    glorious  seal  —  I  feel  those  lips  there  now ! 
And  on  my  forehead,  too,  one  kiss  still  glows 
Like  a  great  star  —  look  here  —  it  was  the  day 
He  hung  this  little  cross  upon  my  neck, 
And  pressed  his  lips,  here,  just  above  the  eyes. 


THE    CONFESSIONAL.  73 

Ah,    well  !    those    days    are    gone.     No  !    No  ! 

No  !  No ! 

They  are  not  gone ;  —  I  love  him  madly  now, 
I  love  him  madly  as  I  loved  him  then ; 
And  I  again  would  ....  No  !   I  will  be  calm  — 
Just  place  your  hand  upon  my  forehead  here, 
It  soothes  me  —  I  will  try  to  be  more  calm. 

I  gave  him  all  —  heart,  soul  and  body  —  all  — 
Even  the  great  hope  of  another  world 
I  would  have  given  for  one  wish  of  his ; 
With  him  this  life  was  all  I  asked  to  have  — 
'Twas  Paradise  —  what  more  or  better  then 
Was  there  to  hope  for  ?  —  without  him  the  best 
Was  only  hell  —  is  only  hell  to  me. 

Ah,  God  !   how  blissfully  those  days  went  by  ; 
You  could  not  heap  a  golden  cup  more  full 
Of  rubied  wine  than  was  my  heart  with  joy. 
Long  mornings  in  his  studio  there  I  sat 
And  heard  his  voice  —  or,  when  he  did  not  speak 


<4  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

I  felt  his  presence,  like  a  rich  perfume, 

Fill    all    my    thoughts.     At    times    he'd   rise    and 

come 

And  sit  beside  me,  take  my  hands  in  his, 
And  call  me  best  and  dearest  —  heaping  names 
Of  love  upon  me— till  beneath  their  weight 
I  bent,  and  clung  unto  his  neck,  and  wept; 
Oh !   what  glad  tears,  he  kissed  them  all  away. 

I  was  his  model  —  hours  and  hours  I  posed 
For  him  to  paint  his  Cleopatra  —  fierce, 
With  her  squared  brows,  and  full  Egyptian  lips, 
A  great  gold  serpent  on  her  rounded  arm, 
('Twas  mine,  look  now  how  lean  and  bony  'tis,) 
And  a  broad  band  of  gold  around  her  head  ; 
And  oft  he'd  say,   <  I  am  your  Antony, 
Ready  to  fling  the  world  away  for  you  ; 
But  you,  if  I  should  fall  upon  my  sword, 
You'd  live  for  Caesar's  triumph  —  would  you  not  ? ' 
And  I,  a  little  vexed,  although  I  knew 
He  did  not  mean  his  words,  would  laugh  and  say, 


THE   CONFESSIONAL.  75 

;  For  all  your  boast,  you  men  are  all  the  same, 
You  would  not  risk  a  kingdom  for  your  love, 
You'd  marry  weak  Octavia  —  all  of  you.' 

Had  I  not  reason  ?     Yet  those  foolish  words, 
They  burn  here  in  my  memory,  like  red  drops 
Of  molten  brass  —  those  little  foolish  jests 
Were  eggs  of  serpents  that  now  hiss  and  sting  ; 
I  curse  my  tongue  that  spoke  them  —  for  he  loves, 
I  know  he  loves  me — loves  me  now  as  then. 

What  a  long  trail  of  flushed  and  orient  light 
Those  summer  days  were  !   but  the  autumn  came, 
The  stricken,  bleeding,  autumn  came  at  last. 
I  saw  him  grow  more  serious,  day  by  day, 
More  fitful,  sudden,  gusty  —  something  weighed 
Upon  his  mind  I  could  not  understand  — 
I  sought  to  win  his  secret  —  but  in  vain. 
' 'Tis  nothing  love,'   he'd  say  —  Then  rising  quick, 
With  sudden  push  would  dash  away  his  hair 
From  his  grand  forehead — to  the  window  go, 


76 


THE    CONFESSIONAL. 


And  with  his  back  turned  to  me,  stand  and  stare 

For  full  five  minutes  in  the  garden  there. 

I  knew  all  was  not  right,  yet  dared  not  ask. 

I  waited  as  we  women  have  to  wait. 

At  last  'twas  clear,  —  two  words  made  all   things 

clear  — 
4  Love,  I  must   go   to  Venice.'     <  Must  ? '     <  Yes, 

must ! ' 

<  Then  I  go  too.'     «  No  !    no  !    ah  !    Nina,  no  — 
Four  weeks  pass   swiftly  — one  short   month,  and 

then 
I  shall  return  to  Florence,  and  to  you.' 

Vain  were  my  words,  he  went  —  alas,  he  went 
With  all  the  sunshine  —  and  I  wore  alone 
The  weary  weeks  out  of  that  hateful  month. 
Another  month  I  waited,  nervous,  fierce 
With  love's  impatience  —  thinking  every  day 
I  heard  his  voice  and  step  upon  the  stair, 
And  listening  to  the  carriages  all  night, 
And  straining  each  back  as  it  passed  the  house,— 


THE   CONFESSIONAL.  77 

With  fits  of  weeping  when  it  rolled  away 

In  the  lone  midnight.  —  When  that  month  was  gone 

My  heart  was  all  a-fire  —  I  could  not  stay, 

Consumed  with  jealous  fears  that  wore  me  down 

Into  a  fever — Necklace,  earrings,  all, 

I  sold  —  and  on  to  Venice  rushed.     How  long 

That  dreary  never-ending  journey  seemed  ! 

I  cursed  the  hills,  up  which  we  slowly  dragged, 

The  long  flat  plains  of  Lombardy  I  cursed, 

With  files  of  poplars  stretching  out  and  out, 

That  kept  me  back  from  Venice  —  but  at  last 

In  a  black  gondola  I  swam  along 

The  sea-built  city,  and  my  heart  was  big 

With  the  glad  thought  that  I  was  near  to  him. 

Yes  !    gladness  came  upon  me  that  soft  night, 

And  jealousy  was  hushed,  and  hope  led  on 

My  dancing  heart.     One  little  half-hour  more 

And  I  should  be  again  within  his  arms  ; 

And  how  he'd  be  surprised  to  see  me  here, 

And  laugh  at  me.     In  vain  I  strove  to  curb 

My  glad  impatience, — I  must  see  him  then, 


78  THE   CONFESSIONAL. 

At  once,  that  very  night  —  I  could  not  wait 

The  tardy  morning  —  'twas  a  year  away.  — 

I  only  gave  ,the  gondolier  his  name, 

And  said,   4  you  know  him  ? '     i  Yes.'     '  Then   row 

me  quick 

To  where  he  is.'     He  bowed,  and  on  we  went 
Threading  along  the  grand  canal  so  swift 
The  oar  sprang  to  the  pressure  of  his  arm  ; 
And  as  we  swept  along,  I  leaned  me  out 
And  dragged  my  burning  fingers  in  the  wave, 
My  hurried  heart  forecasting  to  itself 
Our  meeting  — what  he'd  say,  and  do,  and  think, 
How  I  should  hang  upon  his  neck,  and  say, 
i  I  could  not  longer  live  without  you,  dear.' — 
In  thought  like  this,  I  had  no  heart  to  list 
The  idle  babbling  of  a  gondolier; 
I  bade  him  not  to  talk,  but  row  —  row  —  row ! 

At  last  he  paused,  stretched   out   his   hand,  and 

said, 
'There  is  the  palace.'     I  was  struck  aghast  — 


THE   CONFESSIONAL.  79 

It    flared    with    lights    that    from    the    windows 

streamed 

And  trickled  dowrn  into  the  black  canal  — 
Faint    bursts    of    music    swelled    from    out    the 

doors  — 

A  swarm  of  gondolas  close  huddling  thronged 
Around  the  oozy  steps.     i  Stop  !    stop  ! '    I  cried, 
For    a   wild    doubt    rushed    swiftly    through    my 

mind, 
That    scared    me  —  like    a    strange    noise     in    a 

wood 

A  traveller  hears  at   night,  — '  'Tis  some    mistake  ; 
Why  are  these  lights  ?     This  palace  is  not  his, 
He  owns  no  palace.'     '  Pardon,'  answered  he, 
4 1  fancied  the  Signora  wished  to  see 
The  marriage  festa  —  and  all  Venice  knows 
The  bride  receives  to-night.'     *  What  bride,  whose 

bride,' 

I  snapped,  impatient.     '  Count  Alberti's  bride, 
Whose    else  ? '     he    answered    with    a    shrug.     My 

heart 


80  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

From    its    glad    singing    height    dropped    like    a 

lark 
Shot  dead,  at  those  few  words.     The  whole  world 

reeled, 

•And  for  a  moment  I  was  stunned  and  crushed; 
Then  came  the  wild  revulsion  of  despair  ; 
Then  calm  more  dreadful  than  the  fiercest  pain. 
'  Row  to  the  steps,'   I  said.     He  rowed.     I  leaped 
On  their  wet  edge,  and  stared  in  at  the  door, 
Where  all  was  hurry,  hum,  and  buzz,  and  light. 
I  was  so  calm  —  I  never  was  so  calm 
As  then,  despairing.     Yet  one  little  jet 
Of  hope  was  stirring  in  that  stagnant  marsh  — 
That  little  jet  was  all  that  troubled  me  — 
My  eyes  ran  lightening  zigzag  through  the  crowd 
In  search  of  him  —  he  was  not  there  —  Ah,  God  ! 
I  breathed,  —  he  was  not  there  —  I  inly  cursed 
My  unbelief,  and  turned  me  round  to  go  — 
There  was  a  sudden  murmur  near  the  door, 
And  I  beheld  him  walking  at  her  side. 
Oh!    cursed  be  the  hour  I  saw  that  sight, 


THE    CONFESSIONAL.  81 

And  cursed  be  the  place !  —  I  saw  those  eyes 
That  used  to  look  such  passion  into  mine, 
Turned  with  the  self-same  look  to  other  eyes 
That    upward    gazed    at    his  — yes,    light    blue 

eyes, 

Just  like  Beata's  —  hers  were  light  blue  eyes  ! 

I  saw  hej-  smiling  —  saw  him  smiling  too, 
As  they  advanced  —  I  could  not  bear  her  bliss  ; 
My  heart  stood  still,  and  all  the  hurrying  crowd 
Seemed    spectral,    nothing    lived    but    those    two 

forms  ; 

The  Past  all  broke  to  pieces  with  a  crash 
That    stunned    me,    shattering    every    power    of 

thought : 

I  scarcely  know  what  happened  then  —  I  know 
I  felt  for  the  stiletto  in  my  vest, 
With  purpose  that  was  half  mechanical, 
As  if  a  demon  used  my  hand  for  his, 
I  heard  the  red  blood  singing  in  my  brain, 
I  struck  —  before  me  at  my  feet  she  fell. 
6 


82  THE    CONFESSIONAL. 

"  Who  was   the    queen   then  ?     Ah  !   your  rank 

and  wealth, 

Your  pearls  and  splendors,  what  did  they  avail 
Against  the  sharp  stiletto's  little  point  ? 
You    should    have    thought    of    that    before    you 

dared  — 

You,  who  had  all  the  world  beside  —  to  steal 
The  only  treasure  that  the  Roman  girl, 
The  poor  despised  black  peasant  ever  had  ; 
You  will  not  smile  again,  as  then  you  smiled,— 
Thank  God  !   you  '11  never  smile  again  for  him. 
And  I  alone  of  all  the  crowd  stood  calm  ; 
I  was  avenged  —  avenged  until  I  saw 
The  dreadful  look  he  gave  me  as  he  turned 
From    her    dead    face    and   looked    in   mine  —  Ah, 

God  ! 
It  haunts  me,  scares  me,  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

"  When  will  he  come,  and  tell  me  he  forgives 
And  loves  me  still?     Oh,  Father!   bid  him  come, 


THE   CONFESSIONAL.  83 

Come  quickly  —  come  and  let  me  die  in  peace. 
Tell  him  I  could  not  help  it,  I  was  mad, 
But  I  repent,  I  suffer,  —  he  at  least 
Should  pity  and  forgive.     Oh  !    make  him  come 
And  say  he  loves  me,  and  then  let  me  die. 
I  shall  be  ready  then  to  die  —  but  now 
I  cannot  think  of  God ;    my  heart  is  hell, 
Is  hell,  until  I  know  he  loves  me  still. 

Jan.  1855. 


AN    ESTRANGEMENT. 

HOAV  is  it  ?   it  seems  so  strange ; 

Only  a  month  ago 

And   we    were    such    friends  ;    now    there 's    a 
change ; 

Why,  I  scarcely  know  ; 
I  thought  we  were  friends  enough  to  say, 
"  We  differ  in  this  or  the  other  way, 

What  matter?"     It  was  not  so. 

I  know  not  the  how  or  why, 

I  only  feel  the  fact ; 
Something  hath  happened  to  set  us  awry, 

Something  is  sadly  lacked,  — 
Something  that  used  to  be  before, — 
It  seems  to  be  nothing,  I  feel  it  the  more  ; 

Our  vase  is  not  broken,  but  cracked. 


AN    ESTRANGEMENT. 


85 


Friends  ?    Oh,  yes,  we  are  friends ; 

The  words  we  say  are  the  same, 
But  there  is  not  the  something  that  lends 

The  grace,  though  it  has  no  name. 
When  others  are  with  us  we  feel  it  less  ; 
When  alone,  there's  a  sort  of  irksomeness, 

And  nobody  to  blame. 

I  wish  I  could  say,   "  dear  friend, 

Tell  me,  what  have  I  done  ? 
Forgive  me  ;   let  it  be  now  at  an  end." 

But  ah  !    we  scarcely  own 

That  aught  has  happened  —  or  something  so  slight 
'Tis  ghostlike,  it  will  not  bear  the  light,  - 

'Tis  only  a  change  of  tone. 

Suppose  I  should  venture  to  say ; 

"Something, — oh!    tell  me  what  — 
Troubles  the  heart's  free  play 

That  once  existed  not." 
All  would  be  worse ;  —  we  must  turn  our  back  ; 


86  AN   ESTRANGEMENT.  ? 

Pretend  not  to  see  that  there  is  a  crack 
In  our  vase,  on  our  love  a  blot. 

Once  were  it  openly  said, 

It  would  strike  us  more  apart, 

Each,  alas  !    would  know  that  there  laid 
A  stone  at  the  other's  heart. 

But  now  we  carry  it  each  alone, 

So  we  must  hope  to  live  it  down, 
Each  one  playing  his  part. 

It  is  not  that  I  express 

Less,  but  a  little  more, 
A  little  more  accent,  a  little  more  stress, 

Which  was  not  needed  before. 
Ah  !    would  I  could  feel  entirely  sure 
That  it  was  not  so  —  I  should  be  truer, 

If  you  were  just  as  of  yore. 

But  I  cannot  give  you  up. 
Ah !    no,  I  am  all  to  blame  ; 


AN   ESTRANGEMENT.  87 

You  were  so  kind,  you  filled  my  cup 

With  love,  —  and  mine  is  the  shame  ; 
'Twas  some  stupid,  foolish  word  I  said 
Unwitting,  I  know,  that  must  have  bred 
This  something  without  a  name. 

Was  it  not  all  a  mistake  ? 

Oh  !   porcelain  friendship  so  thin, 
It  is  so  apt,  so  apt  to  break 

And  let  out  the  wine  from  within  ; 
But  once  it  is  injured  the  least,  alack ! 
What  hand  so  skilful  to  mend  the  crack, 

And  make  it  all  whole  again. 


IN     ST.     PETER'S: 

THE    CONVERT   TALKS    TO   HIS   FRIEND. 

A  NOBLE  structure  truly  !   as  you  say,  — 
Clear,  spacious,  large  in  feeling  and  design, 
Just  what  a  church  should  be  —  I  grant  alw.ay 
There  may  be  faults,  great  faults,  yet  I  opine 
Less  on  the  whole  than  elsewhere  may  be  found. 
But  let  its  faults  go  —  out  of  human  thought 
Was  nothing  ever  builded,  written,  wrought, 
That  one  can  say  is  whole,  complete,  and  round  ; 
Your  snarling  critic  gloats  upon  defects, 
And  any  fool  among  the  architects 
Can  pick  you  out  a  hundred  different  flaws ; 
But  who  of  them,  with  all  his  talking,  draws 
A  church  to  match  it  ?     View  it  as  a  whole, 
Not  part  by  part,  with  those  mean  little  eyes, 


IN  ST.  PETER'S.  89 

That  cannot  love,  but  only  criticize, 

How  grand  a  body  !  with  how  large  a  soul ! 

Seen  from  without,  how  well  it  bodies  forth 

Rome's  proud  religion  —  nothing  mean  and  small 

In  its  proportion,  and  above  it  all 

A  central  dome  of  thought,  a  forehead  bare 

That  rises  in  this  soft  Italian  air 

Big  with  its  intellect,  —  and  far  away, 

When  lesser  domes  have  sunken  in  the  earth, 

Stands  for  all  Rome  uplifted  in  the  day, 

An  art-born  brother  of  the  mountains  there. 

See  what  an  invitation  it  extends 

To  the  world's  pilgrims,  be  they  foes  or  friends. 

Its  colonnades,  with  wide  embracing  arms, 

Spread    forth    as    if    to    bless    and    shield    from 

harms, 

And  draw  them  to  its  heart,  the  inner  shrine, 
From  the  grand  outer  precincts,  where  alway 
The  living  fountains  wave  their  clouds  of  spray, 
And  temper  with  cool  sound  the  hot  sunshine. 


90  IN  ST.  PETER'S. 

Step  in  —  behind  your  back  the  curtain  swings  ; 
The  world  is  left  outside  with  worldly  things. 
How  still !  save  where  vague  echoes  rise  and  fall, 
Dying  along  the  distance  —  what  a  sense 
Of  peace  and  silence  hovers  over  all, 
That  tones  the  marbled  aisle's  magnificence, 
And  frescoed  vaults  and  ceilings  deep  with  gold, 
To  its  own  quiet.  —  See  !    how  grand  and  bold, 
Key  of  the  whole,  swells  up  the  airy  dome 
Where  the  apostles  hold  their  lofty  home, 
And  angels  hover  in  the  misted  height, 
And  amber  shafts  of  sunset  bridge  with  light 
Its  quivering  air  —  while  low  the  organ  groans, 
And  from  the  choir's  gilt  cages  tangling  tones 
Whirl  fugueing  up,  and  play  and  float  aloft, . 
And  in  its  vast  bell  die  in  echoes  soft. 

And  mark  !    our  church  hath  its  own  atmosphere, 
That  varies  not  with  seasons  of  the  year, 
But  ever  keeps  its  even  temperate  air, 
And  soft,  large  light  without  offensive  glare. 


IN  ST.  PETER'S.  91 

No  sombre,  gothic  sadness  here  abides 
To  awe  the  sense  —  no  sullen  shadow  hides 
In  its  clear  spaces  —  but  a  light  as  warm 
And  broad  as  charity  smiles  o'er  the  whole, 
And  joyous  art  arid  color's  festal  charm 
Refine  the  senses,  and  uplift  the  soul. 

You  scorn  the  aid  of  color,  exile  art, 
And  with  cold  dogmas  seek  to  move   the  heart  ; 
But  still  the  heart  rebels,  for  man  is  wrought 
Of  God  and  clay,  of  senses  as  of  thought. 
Religion  is  not  logic,  —  husks  of  creeds 
Will  never  satisfy  the  spirit's  needs. 
Strain  up  with  high  theologies  the  wise, 
But  not  the  less  with  art's  sweet  mysteries 
Cling  to  the  common  heart  of  man,  content 
To  save  him,  though  it  be  through  sentiment. 
You  whip  the  intellect  to  heaven  with  pain, 
And  Beauty  with  her  fair  enchanting  train 
From    out    your    cold    bare    church    is    rudely 
driven  ; 


92  IN    ST.    PETER  S. 

And  yet  what  matters  it  hotv  heaven  we  gain 

If  at  the  last  we  really  get  to  heaven? 

No  !    You  are  wrong  ;    the  end  at  last  must  be, 

That  the  heart,  struggling  with  such  sophistry, 

Breaks  through  the  fine-spun  web  of  logic  —  yearns 

For  Love  and  Beauty,  and  to  us  returns  ; 

Or  worse,  it  starves  to  death,  and  left  alone 

The  head  to  godless  madness  journeys  on. 

The  strongest  wings  too  sternly  strained,  must  droop, 

Give  them  a  happy  earth  on  which  to  stoop. 

There  is  no  folly  like  asceticism 

When  preached  to  all  —  Religion's  but  a  prism 

That  makes  truth  blue  to  this,  to  that  one  brown ; 

One  hugs  his  lash,  for  God  to  him  's  a  frown ; 

One  would  prefer  a  kindly  Devil's  hell 

To  heaven,  if  with  an  angry  God  to  dwell. 

And  why  should  you,  in  this  great  world  of  ours, 

Give  God  the  wheat,  and  give  the  Devil  flowers? 

Think  you  that  any  child  was  ever  born, 

Loved  not  the  poppies  better  than  the  corn? 


ix  ST.  PETER'S.  93 

And  for  the  most  part  we  are  children  here, 
That  hold  our  Father's  hand,  and  call  him  —  dear. 

The  head  is  narrow,  but  the  heart  is  broad, 
And  through  the  senses  doors  by  thousands  lead 
To  Love's  pure  temple  —  and  the  very  God 
Comes    through    them    oftentimes    when    least    Ave 

heed ; 

Yet,  though  an  angel  at  their  door  should  come. 
And  knock  for  entrance,  both  his  flushing  wings 
Radiant  with  love's  warm  hues  and  colorings, 
You  cry,  "  No  entrance  here,  go  back  to  Borne, 
Devil  in  angel's  shape  !    they'll  let  you  in  — 
Or,  if  you  be  no  tempting  shape  of  sin,' 
Enter  the  great  door  of  the  intellect, 
That  is  the  only  entrance  to  our  sect." 
Think  you  not  God  frowns,  and  the  angel  weeps, 
Turning  away  ?     Great  Nature  never  creeps 
Into  such  narrow  schemes  —  where'er  she  goes 
Flowers    laugh    before    her  —  from    toil's    planted 

rows 


94  IN  ST.  PETER'S. 

The  lark  springs   singing;    Dawn  for  her  flings  out 
Its  glowing  curtains ;   Day,  with  festal  shout, 
Bursts  glorious  in,  and  flares  o'er  all  the  east, 
Till  Earth  shouts  back  as  at  a  joyous  feast ; 
And  after  twilight  leaves  the  clouds'  long  bars 
The  cool  blue  tent  of  night  she  sows  with  stars, 
And  hushes  all  the  darkened  land  to  dreams, 
Through  which  the  silver  sliding  river  gleams  — 
Her  lavish  hand  for  beauty  never  spares, 
Her  singing  robes  where'er  she  goes  she  wears, 
No  long-drawn  face  is  hers,  morose  and  sad, 
As  your  religion's  is,  but  sweet  and  glad. 
Is  it  to  tempt  us,  then,  to  death  and  sin? 
Ah,  no !    my  friend,  she  only  hopes  to  win 
With  thousand  shifts  these  fickle  souls  of  ours, 
Not  with  her  rods  alone,  but  with  her  flowers. 

You  smile  your  unbelief;  I  recognize 
The  stern  protester  in  that  sad  and  wise 
And  solemn  shake  of  head ;   you  still  prefer 
Your  cold  bare  walls  and  droning  minister  ; 


IN  ST.  PETER'S.  95 

You  hate  the  priest  (of  course  you  mean  not  me, 
But  the  whole  system) — well,  well,  let  it  be, 
I  will  not  argue  that  at  present,  yet 
Some  time  or  other  we  will  talk  of  it ; 
But  this  one  thing  I  say,  and  say  again, 
Great  works  are  born  of  joy  and  not  of  pain  — 
The  Devil  is  an  isolated  brain. 

Why  point  there  to  the  altar  with  a  sniff 
Of  such  superior  virtue,  just  as  if 
Those  ceremonial  forms  the  truly  wise 
Perceive  are  tricks,  and  therefore  must  despise. 
Dear  friend,  observe,  this  service  is  not  made 
For  one  small  chapel,  where  each  word  that's  said 
Might  start  the  furthest  sleeper  —  it  appeals, 
Not    through    the    ear,  as   yours,   but   through  the 

eye; 

Each  sign  or  gesture  is  a  word  that  tells 
As  clear  a  meaning  as  your  "  seventhly." 
Your  service  in  this  vast  basilica, 
Would  it  subserve  a  better  purpose  —  eh? 


96 

A  violent  man  in  black,  a  furlong  off, 

Screaming,  but  all  unheard,  you  would  not  scoff, 

Yet,  as  you  do  not  know  its  sense,  you  think 

Folly  like  this  is  quite  enough  to  sink 

The  Roman  church  —  these  bendings  of  the  knee 

And  crossings,  look  like  pure  idolatry. 

Believe  it  not,  a  form  is  but  a  form, 

Not  bad  or  good  except  as  it  is  warm 

With  the  heart's  blood  —  the  spirit  'tis  alone 

That  gives  the  worth  to  all  that's  said  or  clone. 

Be  reverent,  friend!    nor  sneer  at  her  who  kneels 
In  that  dim  chapel  while  her  beads  she  feels, 
Up-glancing  at  the  saint  that  bleeds  above. 
What  if  her  creed  be  false  ?    one  drop  of  love 
Is  worth  a  thousand  creeds.     I  would  not  care 
Though  she  should  whisper  to  her  lover  there, 
So  full  of  love  for  him,  that  oft  she  prays 
With  idle  lips  —  it  is  not  what  she  says 
But  what  she  is  that  saves  her  —  if  her  heart 
Be  from  the  ritual  service  all  apart, 


IN  ST.  PETER'S.  97 

But  lose  itself  in  earnest  love  for  him, 

God  is  still  served  —  ay  !    and  perchance  the  grim 

And  sad  observance  of  a  loveless  task 

You  would  enforce,  he  would  not  rather  ask. 

But,  hist,  the  sharp  bell  tinkles  —  'tis  the  Host 
The  Pope  uplifts  —  you  will  not,  friend,  be  lost, 
Though  you  should  kneel. 

******** 

You  could  not  stand  apart, 

I  knew  you  must  be  stirred  —  you  have  a  heart. 
Was  it  not  wondrous,  when  the  multitude, 
With  a  vast  murmur,  like  a  wind-swayed  wood, 
Dropped  to  its  knees,  and  sudden  bayonets  flashed 
A  cold  gray  gleam,  and  clanging  side-arms  clashed 
Upon  the  pavement,  as  along  the  nave 
The    helms    of     guards   went   down   with   dropping 

wave 

Of  their  long  horsehair,  —  and  a  silence  deep 
And  full  of  awe  above  us  seemed  to  sweep, 
Like  some  great  angel's  wing,  'neath  which  all  hearts 
T 


98  IN  ST.  PETER'S. 

Were  shadowed  —  till  from  out  the  silence  starts 
A  silver  strain  of  trumpets,  sweet  and  clear, 
That  soars  and  grows  in  the  hushed  atmosphere, 
And  swells  along  the  aisles,  and  up  the  height 
Of  the  deep  dome,  and  dies  in  dizzy  flight 
Among  the  cherubs  —  and  we  know  above 
The  incarnate  Christ  is  looking  down  in  love- 
And  then,  when  all  was  over,  like  a  weight 
Too  great  to  bear  uplifted  from  the  heart, 
The  crowd  rose  up  and  rustled  all  elate  — 
Ah,  friend!    the  soul  is  touched  by  all  this  art  — 
But    come  —  the    crowd    moves  —  shall    we    too 
depart  ? 


THE    KECK  AN. 

BY  the  shadowy  banks  of  the  river, 
That  gleamed  in  the  evening  light, 

As  the  good  priest  rode,  he  pondered 
Of  Virtue,  and  Justice,  and  Right. 

He  thought  of  the  fallen  spirits 

To  whom  the  gates  of  grace 
Were  closed  —  who,  despite  their  repentance, 

Should  never  see  God's  face. 


And  he  crossed  his  breast  and  murmured 

An  Ave  as  he  rode, 
While  he  dreamed  of  a  hell  for  sinners, 

And  an  unforgiving  God. 


100  THE    NECKAN. 

When  he  heard  a  strange,  sweet  music, 
From  a  stringed  instrument, 

And  a  gentle  voice  and  plaintive, 
That  its  sorrow  to  singing  lent. 

And  there,  in  the  soft  green  twilight, 
A  youth  with  curling  hair, 

On  a  rock  by  the  river  sat  singing 
With  a  pale  dejected  air. 

He  knew  'twas  the  spirit  Neckan, 
By  the  elf-locks  loosely  blown, 

And  the  golden  harp  he  was  playing, 
And  the  voice's  strange,  sad  tone. 

And  a  virtuous  indignation 

In  the  good  priest's  breast  was  born, 
So  he  spoke  to  the  poor  lost  Neckan 

In  words  of  reproof  and  scorn. 


THE   NECKAN.  101 

"  Why  play  you  your  harp  so  sweetly  ? 

Ah  !    wretched  child  of  sin, 
This  dead  dry  staff  shall  blossom 

Before  you  shall  enter  in 

To  the  joy  of  the  heavenly  kingdom 
That  is  open  for  children  of  God." 

Then  with  feelings  half-mixed  of  pity, 
He  turned  him,  and  onward  rode. 

But  he  stilled  the  voice  of  pity, 

Though  the  Neckan,  while  he  spake, 

His  golden  harp  threw  from  him, 

And  sobbed  as  his  heart  would  break. 

For  our  good  priest  said,   "  'Tis  Satan 

That  tempts  me  to  my  loss  ;  " 
So  he  muttered  an  anathema, 

And  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 


102  THE    XECKAX. 

But  as  on  he  slowly  ambled, 

His  head  on  his  breast  bent  low, 

He  started,  for  on  his  dead  dry  staff 
Thick  blossoms  began  to  blow. 

And  his  harsh  words  he  remembered, 
And  felt,  with  a  painful  start, 

'Twas  God,  by  the  emblem  rebuking 
His  bigoted  pride  of  heart. 

So  back  to  the  river  he  hurried, 

Where  the  Neckan  sat  weeping  sore, 

And  lifting  his  staff  of  blossoms 

He  cried  to  him,  "  Weep  no  more  ! 

"  Oh !    weep  no  more,  dear  Neckan ! 

For  behold  !    if  this  staff  so  dry 
Can  bourgeon  in  leaves  and  blossoms, 

Can  a  spirit  ever  die  ? 


THE   NECKAN.  103 

And  God,  by  such  emblem,  teaches 

To  the  soul  benighted  in  sin, 
That  the  Postern  gate  of  Repentance 

Is  open  to  all  to  come  in  ; 

To  all  that  desire  to  enter, 

How  sunken  soe'er  they  be, 
And  the  arms  of  God  are  open 

To  thee  as  well  as  to  me. 


For  Justice  is  twinned  with  Mercy,  — 
Their  two  wings  spread  abroad 

Balance  the  highest  angels 

That  live  in  the  smile  of  God." 


Then  broke  through  the  tears  of  the   Neckau 

A  glad  sweet  smile  of  light, 
And  lifting  his  harp  he  played  it 

And  sang  through  the  livelong  night. 


THE    DEATH     OF     GREGORY    XVI. 

ANTOXIO  !  —  Gaetano  !  —  Ho  !  I  say  — 
Where  are  ye  all  ?  —  must  I  lie  here  and  die  — 
Die  all  alone,  without  a  creature  near  ? 
I  faint  with  pulling  at  the  bell-rope  so. 
Help,  Gaetano  !    help  !  —  he  will  not  come  ; 
None,  none  will  come  to  help  a  poor  old  man,  — 
A    wretched    man    that    starves    to    death    with 

thirst. 

Still,  I  am  Pope  !    I  am  thy  Vicar,  God  ! 
And  in  thy  holy  name  I  curse  them  all ! 
Now  let  them  die  beneath  the  church's  ban, 
Die,  and  their  souls  unsaved  hiss  down  to  hell. 
Oh  !    is  there    none    on    whom    I've    heaped    my 

wealth 
Will  stay  beside  my  bed,  and  wipe  the  sweat 


THE   DEATII   OF    GREGORY   XVI.  105 

From  off  my  brow,  and  reach  to  me  a  drop 
Of  something,  any  thing,  to  cool  my  mouth  ?  — 
There  is  the  distant  echo  of  their  feet, 
The  slam  of  far-off  doors  beyond  the  hall  — 
What  do  they  there  ?     Oh,  for  an  hour  of  strength 
In  these  old  legs,  —  but  no  !    I  cannot  stir, 
While  they,  the  villains,  ransack  all  my  vaults ; 
I  almost  hear  them  smash  the  rusted  necks 
Of  cob  webbed  bottles  filled  with  rich  thick  wine, 
And    swill    and    laugh,    while    I    burn    up    with 

thirst ; 

Yes,  burn  like  Dives  with  this  hellish  thirst  — 
Give  me  a  drop,  I  say,  of  my  own  wine  ! 

Am  I  the  Pope  ?   why,  then,  I  say  come  here 
You  brutes,  you  beasts,  that  I  so  oft  have  blest. 
There's  not  a  peasant  that  with  garlic  reeks 
And  in  his  foul  capanna  shakes  and  burns 
With  fever,  but  is  better  off  than  I ! 
He  has  some  friend  to  reach  to  his  hot  lips 
At  least  ditch-water,  but  I,  —  I  the  Pope, 


106  THE   DEATH   OF    GREGORY    XVI. 

Beneath  my  gold-embroidered  canopy, 
I  ...  curse  you,  beasts  and  villains  that 

Hark  !    there's    a    step  —  Gaetano  I  —  Guard  !  — 

Holla  ! 

Help !    help !    come  in,  whoever  you  may  be  ! 
Come  in,  I  say  —  no  matter  for  the  rules  — 
Where  is  the  bell  —  the  bell  !     So,  he  's  gone  too ! 

I'm  not  so  very  old  but  I  might  live, 
Others  have  lived  to  greater  age  than  this  ; 
Oh !  let  me  live  a  few  short  years  at  least, 
Or  but  a  year,  a  little  year,  oh,  God ! 
I  have  not  finished  all  your  work,  you  know, 
And  —  let  me  give  these  villains  their  reward. 
It  almost  makes  me  happy,  when  I  think 
Were  I  once  well,  what  I  would  do  for  them; 
What  lodgings  they  should  have  !     I  'd  palace  them 
In  some  sweet  dungeon  where  the  pleasant  walls 
Should  swarm  with  vermin,  drip  with  oozy  mould 
And  crawl  with  unimaginable  things. 


THE   DEATH    OF    GREGORY    XVI.  107 

I'd  give  them  dainty  fare  of  mouldy  crusts 
And  fetid  water  for  their  luscious  drink, 
So  they  should  know  how  sweet  it  is  to  lie 
The  long,  black   nights,   and    starve    and    die    like 
dogs. 

And    they,  their   masters,  that   have    bowed  and 

cringed, 

Now,  while  I  starve,  are  marching  to  and  fro 
In  purple  and  lace,  through  lighted  palaces 
And  pursing  up  their  mouths  to  flatteries 
In  hopes  to  get  my  seat.     Oh  !    let  me  live, 
If  but  to  cheat  these  Cardinals  of  mine  ; 
I  say  I  will  not  yield  my  seat  to  them. 
Hark !     there  —  that    carriage    jarring    up    the 

court, 

That 's  one  of  them  to  ask  if  I  am  dead ! 
No !    no,  your  Eminence,  I  'm  not  yet  dead, 
Not  dead,  thank  Heaven !    I  '11  live  to  plague  you 

yet! 
There  —  blessings  on  you  —  roll  away  again  ! 


108  THE   DEATH   OF    GREGORY   XVI. 

How  many  hours  have  I  lain  here  alone 
Without  a  hand  or  voice  to  comfort  me, 
List'ning  the  clock  there  with  its  sharp  fierce  tick 
And  the  dull  roar  of  distant  carriages, 
With  none  to  drive  away  these  noisy  flies 
That  swarm  with  such  persistence  round  my  head, 
And  buzz  and  drop,  and  stinging  crawl  along 
My  clammy  forehead,  down  my  burning  nose, 
Till  I  hide  stifling  'neath  the  coverlid, 
For  I  am  grown  too  faint  to  brush  them  off; 
Now,  too,  the  lamp  fails,  and  but  one  wick  holds 
The  tottering  flame  —  the  others  stinking  stream 
With  noisome  smoke  till  all  my  darkening  room 
Is  thick  and  stifling  with  its  poisonous  smell, 
And  that  last  flicker  of  light  at  length  will  go, 
And  I  be  left  in  darkness  all  alone. 

0  God  !    God  !    God  !    I  have  been  full  of  sin  - 
We  all  are  full,  —  but  spare  me  from  thy  wrath. 
See  what  a  wretched  thing  thy  creature  is. 
Let  me  not  die  now  —  fill  my  veins  with  strength 


THE   DEATH    OF    GREGORY   XVI.  109 

That  I  may  rule  this  people  yet  once  more, 
Thy  vicar  on  the  earth,  and  teach  to  them 
Thy  precepts  and  the  rules  of  Holy  Church. 

There    flares    the    light   out  —  darkness    here  at 

last; 

But  keep  away,  Death,  keep  away  to-night, 
I  cannot  die  thus  in  the  dark  alone  — 
Oh,  God  !    you  will  not  let  me  die  here  all  alone. 
Holy  Madonna,  save  me  !    I  will  burn 
A  thousand  candles  in  each  Church  in  Rome 
Before  thy  altars ;  on  thy  neck  I'll  hang 
A  diamond  necklace,  richer,  costlier  far 
Than  the  Colonna  wears  on  her  full  throat, 
Or  than  outdazzles  Piombino's  eyes, 
If  you  will  save  me  from  this  horrid  death. 

Soft !  I  have  slept,  I  think  ;    fainted  perhaps, 
Who  knows  ?   but  now  I  wake  —  ah,  yes,  again 
The  infernal  darkness,  stench,  and  buzz  of  flies ! 
Oh  happy  dream !    come  back  with  your  rich  wines  ! 


110  THE   DEATH   OF    GREGORY   XVI. 

Champagne  all  beady  foaming  to  its  brim, 

Rich  inky  Aleatico,  the  cool 

Soft  roughness  of  delicious  old  Bordeaux, 

Flasks  of  rare  Orvieto,  thinly  sweet, 

All  these  were  flowing  down  my  thirsty  throat, 

In  a  great  stream  I  stood  up  to  my  neck 

And  they  were  gurgling  in  my  burning  mouth. 

Why  did  I  wake  to  such  a  cursed  life  ? 

Oh  !    let  me  dream  forever  such  a  dream ! 

If  that  be  heaven — 'tis  heaven  enough  for  me. 

What 's  this  I  've  found  ?   some  scattered   lemon 


Tipped  from  the  glass  I  drained  such  hours  ago, 
How  sweet   they  taste  —  Good   God  !    how   sweet 

they  taste  ! 
Yet  stop,  I  must  be  careful,  they're  so  few. 

My  strength  is  going,  and  my  head  swims  round ; 
What  is  this  sudden  change  ?  Death,  death,  perhaps, 
And  no  one  near  with  the  Viaticum. 


THE   DEATH    OF    GREGORY   XVI.  Ill 

Go  call  a  priest,  a  priest!    Of  all  the  crowd 
That  fawned  upon  me,  is  there  none  will  come 
And  bring  the  blessed  sacrament  and  place 
The  holy  wafer  on  these  feverish  lips  ? 
Shall  I  lose  heaven  ?   some  one  come  quick,  come 

quick 
And  help  me  or  my  soul  will  else  be  lost. 

Where  is  my  cope  ?  that  richest  one  I  mean, 
Stiff  with  embroidered  gold  and  precious  stones. 
Fools  !  bring  it  quick,  I  say  —  tis  time  to  go ; 
And  that  great  emerald  clasp,  Cellini's  work  — 
Have  you  forgot  that  ?  you  're  sucli  blunderers. 
Now  then,  your  Eminences,  now  to  mass  ! 

Spirits,  avaunt !   ye  come  to  mock  me  here  — 
What !    will  you  flee  not  at  the  Papal  sign  ? 
Off!    off!    I  say  —  I  never  did  you  wrong, 
I  know  you  not  with  your  gaunt,  haggard  cheeks, 
And  lamping  eyes,  and  withered,  crooked  limbs. 
Why  point  your  fingers  at  me  thus,  and  thus 


112  THE   DEATH   OF    GREGORY   XVI. 

Make  imprecation  on  my  dying  head  ? 
Help  !    Gaetano  !    Guard  !    help  !    help  !    I  say. 
Here  are  the  dead  men  bloody  from  the  axe, 
And  ghastly  prisoners  with  their  clanking  chains, 
Dancing  the  dance  of  death  around  my  bed, 
They  strangle  me  I  say,  —  help  !    help  !    oh,  help  ! 
Am  I  not  God's  vicegerent  on  the  earth  ? 


NOTE.  —  Gregory  XVI.  died  in  the  Vatican  during  the  night 
of  the  31st  of  May,  1846,  alone,  utterly  deserted  by  even  the 
meanest  of  his  attendants,  and  suffering  for  want  of  the  wine 
prescribed  by  his  physicians  as  necessary  to  his  sustenance. 
He  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  by  his  physicians  when  they 
visited  him  in  the  morning ;  and  at  the  post  mortem  exam 
ination  nothing  was  found  in  his  stomach  but  a  few  lemon 
seeds.  He  was  82  years  old.  In  character  he  was  ambitious 
and  cruel  ;  in  habits  grossly  intemperate.  A  full  account  of 
the  circumstances  of  the  Pope's  death  is  given  by  Professor 
Gajani,  in  his  Memoirs  of  a  Roman  Exile,  chap,  xxxvi. 


"DE    PROFUNDIS    CLAM  A  VI." 

I. 

THE  bells  are  ringing,  heavily  swinging   in  the  bel 
fry  to  and  fro, 

The  long  procession   is  slowly  toiling,  toiling   on   in 
the  street  below  ; 

Is    it    funeral    or    a    festa  ?      Hark !    that    solemn 
chanting  tells 

With   responses   sad   and   solemn,  as   it  rises,  dies, 
and  dwells, 

It  is  a  funeral,  not  a  festa.     Low,  the  De  Profimdis 
swells, 

And  heavily  toll  for  the  parted  soul    the    throbbing 
funeral  bells. 
8 


114  DE   PROFUNDIS   CLAM  A  VI. 


II. 

The  priestly  column  is  moving  solemn  —  the  drip 
ping,  tipping  wax-lights  flare  ; 

Flare  and  swale,  their  guttering  droppings  caught 
by  the  boys  that  follow  there  ; 

Yellow  and  ghastly  over  the  serges  and  cowls  of 
Capuchins  they  glow, 

Over  their  shaven  crowns  and  bearded  faces  as 
they  chanting  go  — 

Chanting  hoarsely  the  De  Profundis  while  their 
murmur  dies  and  swells, 

And  heavily  toll  for  the  parted  soul  the  pulsing 
funeral  bells. 

in. 
See  !  on  their  shoulders  white-robed  holders  bear 

aloft  the  gloomy  bier  ; 
White-robed  burial  companies  bear  it ;  never  a 

friend  is  walking  near  :  — 


DE   PROFUNDIS    CLAMAVI.  115 

Heavy  with  golden  hem  and  broidery  blackly  flaps 

the  velvet  pall ; 
The   golden  death-head   over   the  coffin,  the   golden 

fringes  round  it  fall, — 
While   from    the    lips   of    careless,    hireling    priests 

the  De  Profundis  swells, 
And  heavily  toll  for  the  parted  soul   the    throbbing 

funeral  bells. 

IV. 

Now  in  a  cluster,  torches  fluster,  —  the  heavy  cur 
tain  is  pushed  away, 

As  at  the  wide  church-door  they  enter,  and  the 
black-palled  coffin  lay 

On  its  catafalque,  fronting  the  altar,  girdled  by 
candles  tall  and  white, 

And  there  alone  in  the  deepening  gloom  they  leave 
it  to  lie  till  the  middle  night, — 

While  the  last  sad  tone  of  the  De  Profundis  dies 
through  the  frescoed  dome  and  swells, 

And  the  last  deep  knoll  for  the  parted  soul  peals 
from  the  pulsing  bells. 


116          DE  PROFUXDIS  CLAMAYI. 

V. 

Thence  it  is  hurried  and  darkly  buried,  when  the 
solemn  midnight  hangs  above, 

By  hirelings  buried,  without  a  prayer,  or  a  sobbing 
last  farewell  of  love,  — 

Hurried  and  buried,  the  pomp  all  over,  with  none 
to  shed  above  it  a  tear, — 

Hurried  and  hid  like  a  thing  of  horror,  with  never 
a  friend  or  lover  near, — 

And  the  solemn  tone  of  the  De  Profundis  now  no 
longer  rises  and  swells, 

And  no  longer  toll  for  the  parted  soul  the  throb 
bing  funeral  bells. 

VI. 

When  through  the  portal  of  death  the  immortal 
hath  passed,  and  left  this  house  of  clay  — 

When  to  the  grave  this  dust  deserted  is  borne 
upon  its  silent  way, 

Light  me  no  torches  —  no  hired  procession  —  but 
ye  beloved  ones  be  near, 


DE   PROFUNDIS    CLAMAVI.  117 

And  lay  me  beneath  the  trees  to  slumber — leave 
rne  there  with  a  prayer  and  tear  — 

And  your  voices  of  love  be  the  De  Profundis  that 
from  your  sorrowing  bosoms  swells, 

While  throbbing  toll  for  the  parted  soul  the  solemn 
funeral  bells. 

BAGNI  DI  LUCCA,  Aug.  22,  1853. 


IN    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

OUR  captain  's  glum  to-night,  he  will  not  drink, 
But  ever  since  he  came  last  night  from  Rome 
He  seeks  to  be  alone.     Vincenzo,  come, 
What  did  you  both  see,  you  were  with  him  there  ? 
Throw  some  pine-knots  upon  the  fire — 'tis  cold, 
These   bleak   March   nights   in    this  damp   cave    of 

ours ; 

The  tufa  drips  —  the  olive-wood  wont  blaze, 
But  smoulders  sulky  as  our  captain  there, 
Or  spits  out  its  fierce  sparkles  now  and  then. 
Draw  up,  and  tell  us  what  you  saw  at  Rome  ! 
And  Steno,  you  and  Maso  can't  you  cease 
That  cursed  game  of  morra;   full  an  hour 
I've  heard  your  quattro,  cinque,  tutti  —  Come, 
Leave  off,   and  hear  what  'Cenzo  saw  at  Rome. 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  119 

Viva  the  Carnival,  I  say,  my  boys  ! 

At  least,  sometimes  we  can  go  back  to  Rome. 

Stop  !   brim  your  glasses  —  are  you  ready,  all  ? 

Here's  death  and  hell  to  all  gendarmes,  I  say, 

And,  Sangue  della  Madonna,  health  to  him 

Who  helps  that  rosy  whiskered  English  lord 

At  Subiaco  of  his  golden  boys. 

Come  now,  Vincenzo,  what  you  saw  at  Rome. 

"  Or  lene,  since  you  wish  it,  here  it  is  ; 
I  wish  you  joy  of  it  when  it  is  told. 
Our  Captain  there  you  know  will  go  to  Rome 
Despite  its  danger,  —  and  we  all  know  why  ; 
Nina  is  there,  —  'tis  her  black,  lustrous  eyes 
That  spoil  him  for  our  leader,  —  half  his  heart 
Is  rotten  with  the  thinking  of  old  times, 
And  how  it  might  have  been.     If  we  go  on 
This  way,  with  sparing  knife  and  blood,  as  he 
Will  have  it,  some  fine  morning  we  shall  ride 
Chained  in  a  cart,  with  four  of  those  gendarmes 


120  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Riding  beside  us  —  all  tlieir  carabines 

Well  primed  and  loaded,  —  as  Luigi  did  : 

That  was  a  pleasant  sight  for  all  of  us. 

I  say,  my  boys,  there  's  nothing  but  the  knife 

Stops    blabbing,    shuts    the    eyes    up,    shears    the 

tongue. 

When  I  die,  let  it  be  upon  the  grass, 
Under  the  sky,  a  bullet  through  my  heart,  — 
That's  quickly  over  —  but  a  noisome  cell, 
Faugh  !    in  their  prisons  —  is  that  death  or  life  ? 
At  the  Falcone,  as  I  passed  to-night, 
Per  Bacco,  I  saw,  posted  on  the  wall, 
(A  group  of  travellers  staring  at  it  there,) 
Under  the  Pope's  arms,  a  Proclama,  —  Well ! 
There  was  my  measure,  and  our  Captain's  too. 
He  's  brave  enough,  I  know,  but  then  again, 
After  an  accident  like  that  last  month 
He  '11   sulk   a   week  —  there's   no  more   drink    and 

fun  ; 

But  can  we  help  it  if  we  kill  sometimes 
By  accident,  or  when  the  blood  is  up  ? 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  121 

Then,  he  's  so  soft  too  at  such  times  —  don't  speak 
In  his  quick  way,  but  kindly,  like  a  girl, 
That  one  can't  quarrel  with   him.     Well,  we  know 
Nina  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  that. 

"But  that's  no  news  to  us  —  so  let  it  go- 
'Twas  just  the  same  with  Gigi  as  with  him, 
His  heart  was  never  in  our  business ; 
And  after  he  had  killed  that  Englishman, 
(Damn  him,  I  only  wish  he'd  kept  at  home,) 
Half  by  mischance,  and  half  in  self-defence, 
The  fool  so  stuck  to  him,  —  and  that  young  girl 
With  her  fair  hair,  screamed  curses  after  us, 
And  lifted  up  her  bloody  hands  to  heaven, 
And  fainted  on  her  father's  body  there,  - 
Gigi  lost  heart  in  life  —  well !    that  was  bad  ! 
I  've  thought  of  that  girl,  too,  more  times  than  once ; 
But    that 's    our    trade !     things    are    not    always 

sweet. 

By  God !    what  we  saw  yesterday  in  Rome 
Was  not  so  sweet. 


122  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

"  Well  !    well !    I'll  tell  you  that  — 
But  just  a  minute  first  —  You  know  'tis  now 
Just  two  years  to  a  clay  since  Gigi  came 
Up  in  the  mountains  here  to  g'oin  our  band  ; 
And  you  remember,  too,  what  brought  him  here  ; 
Bah!    'twas    the    same    thing    brought    a    half  a 

score  ; 
Brought  you  —  and  you  —  and  me  —  and  him  out 

there  — 

Only  the  old  thing  —  a  conspiracy  — 
Attempt  at  revolution.     We  all  thought  — 
Fools  !    fools  !    we  little  handful  of  tried  friends, 
All  sworn  to  secrecy,  —  (we  have  no  brains, 
Of    course    we    might    have    known    there    was    a 

spy. 

Are  there  not  always  spies  ? )    we    thought   to    end 
The  reign  of  priests,  and  get  back  once  again 
What,    some    time,    God   knows    when,   our  fathers 

had, 

The  dear  old  liberty  to  speak  and  move 
And  jerk  our  neck  out  from  the  galling  yoke 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  123 

Of    Priests     and     Cardinals  ;  —  by     heaven  !    the 

Priests, 

Let  us  once  get  the  upper  hand  again, 
Shall  have  a  red  cloak  like  the  Cardinals, 
Dipped  in  the  best  of  dyes,  their  own  rank  blood. 
Have  they  not  cursed  us  all,  and  spoilt  our  life  ? 
Since  Tolla  died,  instead  of  prayer  at  night, 
I've  only  sworn  one  oath  —  I'll  keep  it  too  — 
God  willing.     Ah  !    what  wretched  fools  we  were  ; 
Yet  who  so  swift  to  swear  as  Angelo  ; 

O  ' 

I  almost  doubted  then,  he  swore  so  swift. 

The  Jesuit !    how  he  urged  and  pricked  us  on, 

Just  to  bring  in  the  Sbirri  at  the  last  ; 

Some  hid,  some  fled,  —  I  think  I  left  my  mark 

Before  I  fled  upon  our  Jesuit's  neck, 

He  screamed  so  —  but  at  last  there  was  for  all 

But  one  way  left,  that  was  not  worse  than  death, 

(To  leave  our  dear  beloved  Italy) 

That  way  was  to  the  mountains  —  Gigi  came, 

What  was  there  else  for  him,  to  us,  of  course. 

Ah  !    I  remember  —  we  remember  all, 


124  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Those   passionate   words,  that   wild   grand   curse    of 

his, 

Like  the  old  Roman  pictures,  when  he  held 
Both  his  strained  hands  up,  every  finger  spread, 
And    cursed    the    priests,    and    then    burst    into 

tears  ; 

And  how  we  kissed  him  and  embraced  him  there  ; 
He  was  too  good  for  us,  something  too  fine 
For  our  wild  life,  —  a  razor  to  hew  stones  ;  — 
It  was  not  love  of  gold  nor  of  revenge, 
Nor  even  the  wild  freedom  of  our  life,— 
'Twas  dire  necessity — and  one  thing  more, 
His    love    for  —  you    know    who  —  that    kept   him 

here. 

"  After  that  English  girl's  affair,  he  lost 
All  fire  and  spirit,  hated  life,  at  last, 
I  think  on  purpose,  flung  him  in  the  way 
Of  capture,  thinking  death  might  expiate 
This  crime  —  we  all  of  us  are  so  at  times, 
Only  the  fits  came  oftener  to  him. 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  125 

"  Such  friendship  as  the  Captain  had  for  him  ! 
Some  time  the  Captain  '11  go  the  self-same  way,  — 
You  mark  my  words.     But  here  I  come  at  last 
To  what  we  saw  at  Rome.     At  nearly  four 
We  reached  the  gate  of  San  Giovanni,  wiiere 
Between  the  wine  carts  unperceived  we  slipped, 
In  Contadino  dress,  —  the  soldiers  round 
Scarce  noticed  us,   then   down   through  the   back 

streets, 

(And  even  there  the  Carnival  flowed  o'er) 
Where  I  put  on  an  Arlecchino's  dress, 
Painted  my  face  with  stripes  of  white  and  red, 
And  parted  with  the  Captain  —  on  he  went 
To  Nina  —  I  was  for  the  Carnival, 
Again  to  meet  him  when  the  midnight  struck. 

"  Oh  !    what  a  joy  to  be  again  in  Rome  ! 
I  could  have  kissed  the  pavement  in  my  joy. 
All  down  the  Corso's  length  the  Carnival 
Was  at  its  maddest  height — the  narrow  stree" 
Swarmed  with  its  life  ;  from  windows,  balconies, 


126  IX   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

And  stagings  improvised  along  the  squares, 
And  hung  with  rich  embroidered  tapestries, 
Thousands  of  eager  laughing  faces  looked  ; 
Even  the  roofs  were  thronged,  the  door-ways 

crammed, 

The  benches  on  the  sidewalks  crowded  close 
With  black-haired  girls  from  the  Trastevere, 
All  smiling.     What  a  tumult  of  mad  joy ! 
What  noises  !    what  costumes  !    what   dusty  showers 
Of  white  confetti;    what  mad  pelting  there, 
With    bursts    of    laughter,    mixed    with    fifes    and 

drums, 

And  squeaking  pipes,  and  tinkling  of  guitars ; 
Flowers  flying,  falling,  raining  everywhere  ; 
Flowers  on  the  pavement,  where  the  scrambling  boys 
Fought  for  them  under  files  of  carriages ; 
Flowers  in  great  masses  at  the   corners ;  flowers 
In  monstrous  baskets,  borne  upon  the  heads 
Of  Contadini.     Oh !    what  life  and  fun  ! 
By  heaven !    there   was    but    one   thing   raised   my 

gorge  — 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  127 

The  Carabinieri,  —  there  they  stood, 

Like  statues,  at  the  opening  of  the  streets  — 

I    would    that    all    their    throats    were    one    great 

throat, 

That  I  could  slit  it  once  for  all,  and  then 
Die,  if  need  be.     And  yet,  why  speak  of  them  ? 
They  are  but  tools  their  rascal  masters  use. 

"  At  last  the  carriages  were  driven  out, 
The  cavalry,  with  clattering  hoofs,  dashed  down 
The  thronging  Corso,  splitting  through  the  mass ; 
Then  the  Avild  horses,  with  their  spangles  on, 
And  crackling  foil,  and  beating  balls  and  spurs, 
Rushed  madly  up  the  street.  —  The  cannon  pealed, 
And  all  was  over  for  a  time. 

"  I  say 

Fill  up  my  glass  again !    My  throat  is  dry 
With  all  this  talking  —  I  say,  fill  it  up, 
Up  to  the  brim  —  no  stinting,  if  I  talk. 


128  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

"  At  One  I  joined  the  Captain  ;  I  was  flushed 
With  wine  ;  but  his  face  sobered  me  at  once  ; 
He  did  not  speak,  but  something  in  his  look 
Told  'twas  no  time  for  jesting.     Nina  said, 
'  Bad  news,  Lippino,  you  must  leave  at  once  ; 
Lucky  perhaps,  you  came  so  late  —  I  fear 
Something   is    wrong.     Where    have    you    been    to 
night  ? 
Drinking    and    talking?     Man,    you'll    lose    your 

head 

If  you  don't  learn  to  rule  that  tongue  of  yours. 
Something 's  suspected  ;    the  police  were  down 
An  hour  ago,  but  all  was  quiet  then  — 
Now  they  are  gone  do  you  slip  out  and  run  — 
Take  the  back  streets  —  you'll  find  some  place  to 

sleep, 

But  be  behind  Rienzi's  house  at  Four; 
He'll  meet  you  there  —  you  must  be  off  at  once. 
Besides,'  she  whispered,  '  Gigi's  day  has  come, 
Poor  fellow  —  he  won't  suffer  after  Four.' 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  129 

Here  her  eyes  flashed,  burning  away  the  tears 
That  gushed  into  them,  as  these  words  she  said. 

"  Nina  !    Per  Dio  !    she  is  worth  a  man. 
If  I  have  ever  said  our  Captain's  weak 
To  think  of  her  so  much,  I  was  a  fool. 
If  she  loved  me  as  she  loves  him,  I  swear 
Not  all  the  bayonets  of  Rome  could  keep 
My  foot  from  out  the  city  —  no  !    nor  yours  ! 

"  Hist !   is  he  coming  ?     If  he  is,  I  stop ; 
For  next  to  Nina  he  loved  Gigi  best ; 
And  now  my  story  is  of  Gigi.  —  No  ! 
There  stands  he  still,  his  hat  pulled  o'er  his  brow. 
Stay  !   let  me  carry  him  a  glass  of  wine. 
Poor  fellow  !   he  feels  bad  enough,  I  know, 
And  this  damp  night  air  gnaws  into  one's  bones. 

"  He  took  it,  so  all 's  well  —  his  voice,  perhaps, 
A  little  husky,  that  was  not  from  cold. 
Well,  then !    the  few  hours  left  of  night  I  roamed 


130  IN    THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Through  the  back   streets,  and    watched   the   river 

swirl 

Blackly  away  —  then  dozed  an  hour  or  so 
In  the  dim  corner  of  the  Temple  of  Peace, 
Till  day  began  to  lighten  the  gray  mists. 
At  four  I  met  the  Captain  —  neither  spoke 
A  word  of  Gigi,  though  we  both  of  us 
Thought  only  of  him.  —  Silently  and  sad 
In  the  grim  dawn  we  took  our  way  along ; 
And  as  we  went  into  the  Velabro, 
Down  through  the  Bocca  della  Verita, 
We  heard  the  dull  beat  of  a  single  drum, 
The  sound  of  feet,  the  dragging  of  a  cart. 
The  sound  jarred  terribly  against  the  heart  ; 
An  awful  sense  of  something  vague  and  dread 
Came  over  me, — we  paused,  —  a  moment  more 
The  Confraternita,  with  hooded  heads, 
Their  dark  eyes  glaring  ghastly  through  the  holes, 
And  their  black  banner  gilt  with  skull  and  bones, 
Turned  from  the  street  into  the  open  square. 
Then  files  of  soldiers  —  then  a  guarded  cart  — 


IN   THE   MOUNTAINS.  131 

God!   'twas  Luigi  standing  there.  —  My  knees 
Shook  underneath  me  for  a  moment's  space, 
Not  out  of  fear,  (you  know  me  all  too  well 
For  that,  I  think.)     A  ghastly,  dreadful  sense 
Of  horror  crept  along  my  chilling  nerves  — 
I    caught    his    eye  —  'twas    firm    and    fixed    as 

Fate; 

A  smile  that  I  could  see,  because  I  knew 
My  comrade,  sudden  gleamed  across  his  face, 
Then  it  was  locked  up  in  its  fierce  resolve, 
Only  his  under  lip  twitched  now  and  then. 
Things  went  as  in  a  dream,  the  old  sad  way. 
Why  tell  you  how  it  went  ?     At  last  he  stood 
Erect  a  moment,  turned  his  head  all  round, 
Then  suddenly,  and  with  a  clear  full  voice 
Cried,  shouting,   c  Viva  la  Republica, 
E  Liberia  per  tuttf  il  popolo 
E  Morte?  ....  Here  a  deafening  roll  of  drums 
Thundered   his    voice    out.  —  Swift   he    was    drawn 

back. 
I  saw  his  lips  move,  and  his  arms  thrown  up, 


132  IN   THE   MOUNTAINS. 

The  priest  beside  him  raised  the  crucifix, 
Thud,  went   the    axe,  ....  Gah !    what   a   horrid 
sound ! 

"  Give  me  some  wine  !  —  Oh,  God  !    when  comes 

the  time 

For  us,  the  people,  —  when  the  miracles 
Of  San  Pietro  shall  be  wrought  for  us  ? 
Dear,  brave  Luigi !     when  that  time  shall  come  - 
Here,  swear  it  with  me,  all  of  you  —  no  spy 
Is  here  among  us  —  for  each  drop  of  blood 
A   cowl   shall   fall  — We'll   sweep    the   streets   for 

them, 
They  shall  not  want  for  dye  for  Cardinals  ! 


L  OVE. 

WHEN  daffodils  began  to  blow, 
And  apple  blossoms  thick  to  snow 

Upon  the  brown  and  breaking  mould  - 
'Twas  in  the  spring  —  we  kissed  and  sighed 
And  loved,  and  heaven  and  earth  defied, 

We  were  so  young  and  bold. 

The  fluttering  bob-link  dropped  his  song, 
The  first  young  swallow  curved  along, 

The  daisy  stared  in  sturdy  pride, 
When  loitering  on  we  plucked  the  flowers, 
But  dared  not  own  those  thoughts  of  ours, 

Which  yet  we  could  not  hide. 


104  LOVE. 

Tiptoe  you  bent  the  lilac  spray 
And  shook  its  rain  of  dew  away 

And  reached  it  to  me  with  a  smile  : 
"  Smell  that,  how  full  of  spring  it  is  "  — 
'Tis  now  as  full  of  memories 

As  'twas  of  dew  ere  while. 

Your  hand  I  took,  to  help  you  down 
The  broken  wall,  from  stone  to  stone, 

Across  the  shallow  bubbling  brook. 
Ah !    what  a  thrill  went  from  that  palm, 
That  would  not  let  my  blood  be  calm, 

And  through  my  pulses  shook. 

Often  our  eyes  met  as  we  turned, 

And  both  our  cheeks  with  passion  burned, 

And  both  our  hearts  grew  riotous, 
Till  as  we  sat  beneath  the  grove, 
I  kissed  you  —  whispering,  "  we  love  "  — 

As  thus  I  do  —  and  thus. 


LOVE. 

When  passion  had  found  utterance, 
Our  frightened  hearts  began  to  glance 

Into  the  Future's  every  day  ; 
And  how  shall  we  our  love  conceal, 
Or  dare  our  passion  to  reveal, 

"  We  are  too  young,"  they  '11  say. 

Alas  !    we  are  not  now  too  young, 
Yet  love  to  us  hath  safely  clung, 

Despite  of  sorrow,  years,  and  care  — 
But  ah !    we  have  not  what  we  had, 
We  cannot  be  so  free,  so  glad, 

So  foolish  as  we  were. 


135 


SHADOWS  AND  VOICES   AT  TWILIGHT. 

THE  fire-light  flickers  —  closed  are  the  shutters  — 

The  fountain  and  the  rain 
Plash  in  the  wells,  and  gush  from  the  gutters 

With  a  dull  monotonous  pain. 

The  fire-light  flickers  —  on  wall  and  ceiling 

Wild  uncouth  shadows  dance, 
To  the  corners  dark  so  swiftly  stealing, 

When  the  flame  darts  up  with  a  glance. 


I  know  there's  a  great  black  shadow  mowing 

And  mocking  above  me  there, 
As  over  the  fire  my  figure  bowing 

Into  its  coals  I  stare. 


SHADOWS   AND   VOICES   AT   TWILIGHT.          137 

The  sparks  in  the  soot  are  toiling  and  moiling 

Like  a  crowd  of  burning  flies, — 
From  its  hot  pores  driven  all  hissing  and  boiling 

The  shrill  sap  screaming  dies. 

What  voice  is  that  at  the  window  wailing  ? 

That  wails  in  the  sobbing  rain  — 
That  wails  and  moans  with  a  voice,  now  failing, 

Now  rising  with  screams  of  pain. 


Is  it  a  friend  that  shakes  and  rattles 
And  beats  at  the  panes  so  thin  ? 

Or  some  lost  soul  with  the  Fiend  that  battles, 
Imploring  to  enter  in  ? 

Some  little  child  that  is  freezing  and  dying, 

And  longs  for  the  glowing  fire, 
That  pats  with  its  little  cold  hands  —  crying 

With  passionate  desire  ? 


138  SHADOWS   AND    VOICES    AT   TWILIGHT. 

Is  it  some  spirit  that  ere  he  quitteth 

This  earth,  is  pausing  there, 
Some  dear  friend's  flitting  spirit  that  sitteth 

On  my  sill  in  the  bleak  night  air  ? 

No !    'tis  the  wind  alone  that  clatters 

Against  the  shuddering  pane, 
And  some  tree-branch  on  the  blind  that  patters 

With  the  gusts  of  the  windy  rain. 

The  world  is  weird  ;   in  these  twilight  regions 

Are  shapes  of  fear  and  fright  — 
I    shrink   from    their    nightmares    that    gather   in 
legions,  — 

Bring  in  the  light ! 


ATE  ST  AMENT. 

DEAR  friend  !    if  Death  against  my  door 

Be  first  to  knock,  and  bid  me  rise, 
What  trivial  things  shall  have  the  power 

To  bring  the  tears  into  your  eyes. 
You  '11  gaze  upon  each  worthless  thing 

That  once  was  mine,  and  with  a  sigh 
You  '11  say,   "  Ah !  we  were  happy  then, 

In  the  old  days  gone  by." 

You'll  look  upon  this  blackened  flute, 

And  say,   "  when  he  was  young  and  gay, 

And  light  of  heart,  and  light  of  foot, 
What  sentimental  airs  he'd  play." 

You  '11  think  on  those  old  serenades 
You  listened  to  with  beaming  eye, 


140  A   TESTAMENT. 

And  say,   "  Ah !   we  were  happy  then, 
In  the  old  days  gone  by." 

You'll  turn  my  old  portfolio  o'er, 

Its  rudest  scraps  you  '11  cherish  then, 
For  they  will  have  the  magic  power 

To  make  me  live  to  you  again. 
You  '11   travel  o'er  each  pictured  scene 

That  shall  survive  this  hand  and  eye, 
And  say,   "  Ah  !    we  were  happy  then, 

In  the  old  days  gone  by." 

You  '11  keep  these  tools  so  smoothly  worn 

With  which  I  shape  the  facile  clay, 
And  gaze  upon  them,  half-forlorn, 

Then  lay  them  carefully  away. 
You  '11  say,   "  His  hand  could  deftly  shape, 

None  knew  and  valued  him  as  I, 
And  ah !    we  were  so  happy  then, 

In  the  old  days  gone  by." 


A   TESTAMENT.  141 

These  verses,  spiritless  and  weak, 

(Poor  weeds  that  never  came  to  flower,) 
Of  joyous  times  to  you  may  speak, 

May  speak  of  many  a  bitter  hour. 
You  '11  read  the  records  wrung  by  pain, 

When  Death  and  Grief  stood  weeping  nigh, 
And  say,   "  Ah !    we  were  wretched  then, 

In  the  old  days  gone  by." 

You'll  kindly  look  on  what  I've  done, 

And  say,   "  How  earnestly  he  strove, 
Not  all  in  vain,  nor  all  alone, — 

I  sought  to  help  him  with  my  love, 
And  if  he  failed,  'twas  not  from  lack 

Of  heart  and  will,  and  purpose  high,"  — 
And   "  Ah !    we  both  were  happy  then, 

In  the  old  days  gone  by." 

And  after  you  have  mourned  awhile, 
And  Grief's  deep  rut  hath  worn  away, 


142  A   TESTAMENT. 

Recall  my  foolish  jokes,  and  smile, 
For  I  would  have  my  memory  gay  ; 

Think  of  me  in  my  happiest  mood, 
And  speak  of  me  as  I  were  nigh, 

And  feel  that  I  am  with  you  still, 
As  in  the  days  gone  by. 


ITALY    AND    NEW    ENGLAND. 

"Look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

ALL  is  Italian  here  !  —  the  orange   grove, 
Through  whose  cool  shade  we  every  morning  rove 
To  pluck  its  glowing  fruit  —  our  villa  white 
With  loggias  broad,  where  far  into  the  night 
We  sit  and  breathe  the  intoxicating  air 
With  orange-blossoms  filled,  or  free  from  care 
In  the  cool  shadow  of  the  morning  lie 
And  dream  and  watch  the  lazy  boats  go  by 
Laden  with  fruits  for  Naples  —  the  soft  gales 
Swelling  and  straining  in  their  lateen  sails, — 
Or,  with  their  canvas,  hanging  all  adroop, 
While  the  oars  flash,  and  rowers  rise  and  stoop. 
Look  at  this  broad,  flat  plain  heaped  full  of  trees, 
With  here  and  there  a  villa,  —  these  blue  seas 


144  ITALY   AND   NEW  ENGLAND. 

Whispering  below  the  sheer  cliffs  on  the  shore, 

These  ochre  mountains  bare  or  olived  o'er, 

The  road  that  clings  to  them  along  the  coast, 

The  arching  viaducts,  the  thick  vines  tost 

From  tree  to  tree,  that  swing  with  every  breeze, — 

What  can  be  more  Italian  than  all  these  ? 

The  streets,  too,  through  whose  narrow,  dusty  track 

We  ride  in  files,  each  on  our  donkey's  back, 

When  evening's  shadow  o'er  the  high  gray  walls, 

O'ertopped  with  oranges  and  olives,  falls, 

And  at  each  corner  'neath  its   roof  of  tiles, 

Hung  with  poor  offerings,  the  Madonna  smiles 

In  her  rude  shrine  so  picturesque  with  dirt. 

Is  this  not  Italy  ?     Your  nerves  are  hurt 

By  that  expression  —  dirt  —  nay,  then  I  see 

You  love  not  nature,  art,  nor  Italy. 

Nature  abhors  what  housewives  love,  —  the  clean  - 

And  beauty  hides  when  pail  and  brush  come  in- 

She  joys   in   grime,    mould,   rot,   mud,    spots,  and 

stains,  — 
Whitewash  your  wall,  and  see  what  curious  pains 


ITALY   AND   NEW   ENGLAND.  145 

They  take  to  undo  all  your  hands  have  done ; 
Ask  help  of  wind,  rain,  dust,  and  sun  — 
Crack  it  and  twist  it,  plant  its  clifts  with  seeds, 
Gray,  green,  and  yellow  it  with  moss  and  weeds, 
Dye  it  with  wet  leaves,  call  the  spiders  in, 
Beseech  the  lizards  there  to  leave  their  skin, 
Strain  every  nerve  to  spoil  the  work  you  do ; 
You  do  not  like  it?    all  the  worse  for  you. 

But  I  forget  my  theme — just  look  once  more 
O'er  the  blue  bay,  along  whose  foam-fringed  shore 
White  Naples  glimmers  and  Resina  dreams,  — 
And    'neath     the    smoky    trail     that     threatening 

streams 

From  bare  Vesuvius'  cone,  through  living  bloom 
Pompeii's  ghost  peers  from  its  ashy  tomb. 
Is  not  this  Italy?     And  that  strange  song 
You  hear  yon  peasant  screaming  with  its  long 
And  drawling  minor  monotone,  has  not 
That  song  the  very  perfume  of  the  spot  ? 
10 


146  ITALY   AND    NEW   ENGLAND. 

A  hard  old  sailor  that  Ulysses  was, 
Or  he  had  never  had  the  heart  to  pass 
These  fair  Sorrento  shores  —  and  rather  old 
Perhaps,  for  love,  if  the  plain  truth  were  told. 
Faith  !    if  our  Menicuccia  here  should  sit 
On  these  high  cliffs,  and  beckon  me  to  it 
With  her  black  hair  and  eyes  and  sunny  smile 
Mid  grapes  and  oranges  —  I'd  think  a  while 
Ere  I  refused.     His  Sirens,  I  suppose, 
Sang  the  old  song  that  every  girl  here  knows  ; 
Our  Menicuccia  sings  it  now  and  then, 
A  Siren  fair  as  his  —  "Ti  voglio  ben!" 

There  comes  Antonio,  lazy,  sunny-faced, 
Brown  as  a  nut  and  naked  to  the  waist, 
With  the  brass  coin  that  saves  his  ship  from  wreck 
Stamped  with  the  Virgin,  on  his  sun-burnt  neck. 
See !    what  a  store  of  tempting  fruit  he  brings 
In  his  great  basket,  that  he  lightly  swings 
From  off  his  head,  and  smiles,  and  offers  heaps 
Of  luscious  oranges,  and  figs,  and  grapes, 


ITALY   AND   NEW   ENGLAND.  147 

And  rusted  apricots,  and  purple  plums, 
For  one  carlino  —  one  of  his  brown  thumbs 
Uplifted,  tells  the  price  —  you  give  him  half: 
He  shrugs,  and  says,  "  E  poco"  with  a  laugh. 
But  see  !    within  this  corner  where  he  hides 
His  red  tomatoes  with  their  sabred  sides  — 
Those  look  like  home  —  but  what  a  difference  ! 
"  A  revederla,  —  grazie  ' Celenz" 

Stop,  dearest,  here,  and  let  your  fancy  roam, 
Just  for  the  contrast,  to  old  things  at  home  ; 
From  lazy  Italy's  poetic  shows 
To  stern  New  England's  puritanic  prose. 
Remember  that  gray  cottage  at  the  foot 
Of  the  hill's  slope,  where  two  great  elms  had  root 
Beside  the  porch,  like  sentinels  to  guard 
The  entrance  —  and  the  little  fenced-in  yard, 
With  its  heaped  flower-plots,  banked  and  edged  with 

laths, 
Through    which    were     cut    those     narrow     sunken 

paths, — 


148  ITALY   AND   NEW   ENGLAND. 

Oh !    what  a  difference  'twixt  that  and  this  ! 

Yet  there  we  had  an  unbought  happiness. 

There    grew    the    autumn    flowers    our    childhood 

knew, 

Rich  tiger-lilies,  brilliant  cockscombs  too, 
The  pale  pink  clusters  of  full-flowering  flox, 
The  antique  lamps  of  seedy  hollyhocks, 
Nasturtiums  shedding  forth  their  orange  glow 
O'er  the  gray  palings,  clustering  thick  below 
The  freaked  sweet-williams,  dahlias  stiff  and  bold, 
And  the  rank  beauty  of  the  marigold. 

Our  chamber  window',  where  we  used  to  sit 
Long  mornings  (Ah  !   how  I  remember  it,) 
Looked  o'er  a  slope  of  green  unto  a  grove, 
('Twas  there  I  dared  to  speak  to  you  of  love,) 
And  'twixt  it  and  the  house  a  brown  slow  brook 
Slipped  through   the   long   rank   grass,  and  singing 

took 

The  golden  leaves,  two  willows,  old  and  lopped, 
Into  its  shallow  bed  as  tribute  dropped. 


ITALY   AND   NEW   ENGLAND.  149 

And  close  beneath,  our  kitchen  garden  spread, 
With  a  wild  grape-vine  trained  along  the  shed, 
That  o'er  the  whitewashed  boards  its  shadow  swung, 
And  bore  a  fruit  that  puckered  every  tongue. 
There  oft  we  saw  our  hostess,  formal,  prim, 
With  parchment  forehead,  lips  compressed  and  grim, 
Stiff  as  a  dahlia,  walk  beside  the  fence, 
And  from  the  shrub-trees  pluck  a  furry  quince  ; 
Or  in  the  hot  noon's  silence  many  a  day 
We  watched  the  cat  pick  daintily  her  way 
Among  the  beds,  and  leap  the  viny  coil 
Where  golden  pumpkins  dozed  upon  the  soil. 

I  seem  again  to  see,  while  talking  thus, 
The  smoke-like  beds  of  tall  asparagus, 
The  rumpled  cabbage  squat  upon  the  ground, 
The  bean-vines  from  their  high  poles  groping  round, 
The  maize  heads  rusting  in  the  autumn  sun 
And  dropping  many  a  stiff  green  gonfalon, 
And  those  sad  sunflowers,  shorn  of  summer  rays, 
Bending  to  earth  their  great  black  seedy  face. 


150  ITALY    AND    NEW   ENGLAND. 

Here  in  this  land  of  orange,  olive,  vine, 
How  strange  these  memories  of  mine  and  thine  ; 
Yet  dear,  for  all  its  prose,  New  England  seems 
Hazed  with  poetic  hues  by  childhood's  dreams. 

Do  you  remember  too,  how  many  a  day 
On  the  brown  needles  of  the  pines  we  lay, 
And  o'er  us  heard  the  murmur  of  the  breeze 
Sift  through  them,  like  the  swell  of  far-off  seas, 
While  some  red  maple  through  the  vistas  blazed, 
And  velvet  cones  the  scarlet  sumac  raised  ? 
Then,  while  you  wove  the  barberry's  coral  spray 
Round  your  straw  hat,  or  in  your  rustic  way 
Hung  at  each  ear  a  cluster,  far  more  fair 
Than  the  gold  ear-rings  they  were  strung  to  there, 
I  lay  and  read  some  poem  grand  and  strong 
Of  Browning's  —  or  with  Tennyson's  rich  song 
Revelled  awhile,  and  in  your  glowing  face 
Saw  the  quick  answer  to  its  power  or  grace. 
And  oft  the  chickadee's  quick  voice  we  heard, 
Or   the  sharp  mewing  of  the  shrill  cat-bird, 


ITALY   AND   NEW   ENGLAND.  151 

Or  the  high  call  from  out  the  upper  air 
Of  some  black  crow  inquiring  of  us  there, 
While  soft  with  haze  the  autumn  day  passed  by, 
Till  sunset  set  on  fire  the  western  sky. 

But  see  !    Domenico  the  donkey  brings, 
Now    for    our    ride !  —  No    more    New    England 

things  — 

There  come  our  good  friends  Nero  and  his  wife, 
And  there  's  our  Toffel  with  them  on  my  life. 


THE    MARCHESE     CASTELLO 

GIVES   HIS    VIEWS    ON   ITALY. 

I'M  still  at  work  you  see,  but  never  mind ! 
I  was  about  to  lay  my  palette  down 
Just  as  I  heard  you  knock.     I  thought  at  first 
It  might  be  your  brave  English  friend  again, 
Who  stared  so  when  he  saw  me  in  my  blouse, 
As  if  to  say,   "  By  Jove !   these  foreigners 
Are  all  the  same  !    beggars  and  noblemen ! 
Why  can't  they  do  as  we  do  ?  "     Now  confess 
You  in  a  friendly  way  had  over-praised 
My  merits  to  him,  and  he  thought  to  meet 
Some  Sydney,  Bayard,  and  he  found  poor  me. 
His  disappointment  was  so  evident 
I  scarce  could  hide  a  smile.  .  .  .  There,  fling  your 
self 


THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO.  153 

Upon  the  sofa  there  ;    'tis  rather  hard, 

But  here  in  our  villeggiatura  days 

We  do  not  live  for  show,  —  no!    on  my  soul, 

Nor  yet  for  comfort,  as  you  English  think  ; 

And  you're  half  right  too,  that's  the  worst  of  it  — 

Nothing  is  sharp  as  an  unpleasant  truth  ; 

A  lie  's  a  lie,  and  there  's  the  end  of  it, 

But  a  hard  truth,  what  stomach  can  digest ! 

Our  comfort  here  is  in  our  laziness, 

Not  in  our  furniture,  and  house,  and  all 

Those  nice  appliances  you  know  so  well. 

Our  easy  tempers  and  indifference 

Make  up  to  us  for  your  material  aids  ; 

We  are  contented  with  our  easy  selves, 

You  are  contented  with  your  easy  chair. 

You,  if  your  tea  's  not  right,  will  fume  and  scold, 

We  shrug  our  shoulders,  drink  it  down,  and  say, 

"  Eh  !    Pazienza  !  "     Yes,  I  know  we  're  fools 

To  be  content  with  anything  we  have, 

For  discontent's  a  sort  of  bastard  child 

Of  high  ambition,  that  would  prick  us  on 


154  THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO 

To  admirable  ends  —  while  weak  content 
Flies  to  the  cloister,  and  drones  out  its  life, 
And  childless  dies. 

That  is  a  little  view 
I  sketched  at  Ostia  one  day  last  May, 
With  Sandro  —  what  a  charming  place  it  is  ! 
With  its  blue  sea,  and  ruined,  rusted  walls, 
And  grassy  slopes  with  marbles  scattered  o'er  — 
Of  course  you've   been    there,    and   picked   up,  no 

doubt, 

Some  of  those  Breccie  which  you  English  like. 
I  'm  glad  my  little  picture  pleases  you ; 
I  think  it  has  a  look  of  air  and  light  — 
A  sentiment,  at  least  —  that's  what  we  get, 
We  amateurs,  that  artists  sometimes  lose. 
How  hard  it  is  to'get  both  things  at  once, 
Body  and  soul,  —  half  of  our  pictures  now 
Are  mere  thin  ghosts,  and  half  are  corpses  quite,  — 
I  said  how  hard,  I  should  have  said  how  rare, 
For  nothing's  hard  to  him  who  does  it  well. 


GIVES   HIS    VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  155 

In  Art  we  work  to  learn  our  alphabet ; 

The  language  learnt,  'tis  easy  enough  to  speak, 

If  we  have  only  anything  to  say  ; 

But  for  the  most  part  in  our  modern  art 

I  find  so  many  a  pretty  phrase  and  word, 

Such  eloquent  expressions  of  no  thought  ! 

And  yet  how  much,  how  much  there  is  to  say  ! 

We  here  in  Italy  are  artist-born; 
Beauty  enchants  us  —  we've  more  love  in  us, 
As  oft  you've  said,  (it  seems  so  true  to  me,) 
Than  in  the  North  is  seen.     You  are  more  cold, 
And  for  the  most  part  easily  mistake 
Our  warmer  natures.     You  have  judgment,  sense, 
Notions  of  duty,  rules  of  life  and  thought, 
While  we  have  impulse,  passion,  feelings  quick 
For  love  or  hate  —  mere  children  as  you  say  — 
With  the    same    charms   and   faults   that   childhood 

has. 

And  mark  !   between  us  both  this  difference, 
You  never  dare  express  the  half  you  feel, 


156  THE   MARCHESE    CASTELLO 

We  say  the  whole,  nay,  often  over-say  — 

That's  but  our  nature  which  you  call  excess. 

And  so,  you  see,  we  both  misapprehend 

Each  other's  virtues,  and  can  only  see 

Each  other's  faults.     I  ask  you  now,  my  friend, 

What  is  the  notion  that  most  English  have 

Of  us  Italians?    ignorant  and  false, 

Full  of  ungoverned  passion,  quick  to  spill 

Blood  at  a  word ;  whose  best  and  worst  of  types 

Are  bandit,  beggar,  priest,  or  some  dark  boy 

Bearing  his  plaster  figures  on  his  head. 

But  is  this  all  ?     Is  there  no  gentleman  ? 

Are  we  then  different  from  all  the  world  ? 

Now  you'll  agree  how  very  false  this  is  ; 

You  've  lived  with  us,  and  know  that  kindlier  hearts, 

More  full  of  sweetness,  tenderness  —  more  prompt 

To  generous  acts  of  pure  unselfishness, 

More  quick  to  help  and  sympathize  in  grief, 

Are  nowhere  found.     Just  look  at  Tita  here, 

Or  our  Giovanni,  or  that  higher  type, 

Luigi,  the  physician  of  the  town  ; 


GIVES   HIS    VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  157 

Is  there  a  larger,  nobler  heart  on  earth  ? 

Is  there  a  head  more  wise,  a  hand  more  skilled 

In  his  profession  —  one  more  free  from  all 

That's  poor  and  petty  in  his  make  than  he  ? 

Think  how  for  weeks  he  tended  at  your  bed 

Regardless  of  himself — night  after   night 

For  you,  a  stranger  he  had  never  seen, 

Solicitous  as  you  had  been  his  child  ! 

And  all  for  what  ?    not  money  as  we  know, 

But  only  from  the  breadth  of  his  great  heart. 

No  ostentation  in  him,  no  false  pride, 

No  coward  fear  of  what  you  thought  of  him, 

But  a  true  gentleman  as  ever  lived. 

Ask  him  to  go  to  Rome  —  strike  with  the  spur 

For  his  ambition  —  he  will  smile  and  say, 

"I  am  content  —  the  people  love  me  here  — 

I  love  the  people."     Urge  his  talents  lost 

In  this  small  village  —  tell  him  he  may  gain 

A  world-wide  fame,  and  with  it  fortune  too  — 

Still  he  will  smile  and  say,  "  I  am  content." 

I  own,  one  will  not  always  meet  with  such, 


158  THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO 

He's  not  a  universal  rule  —  I  know 

That  other  one,  the  veriest  of  quacks, 

Who  stood  with  white  gloves  round  a  dying  bed, 

And  hurried  off  from  all  that  agony 

To  dine,  and  chat,  and  laugh  with  some  milord  — 

But  he,  the  thing,  is  the  exception  here, 

And  he's  a  half-breed,  bred  in  your  own  land. 

So  too,  you  know  our  best  society  ; 
Is  it  so  stupid,  ignorant,  and  dull 
As  they  who  never  entered  it  declare  ? 
I  know  your  England  ;    '  tis  a  noble  soil, 
Rich  in  strong  minds  and  educated  power, 
And  stronger  in  its  character  than  all  — 
Yet  cold  and  doubting  when  a  stranger  comes, 
(Unless  he  be  a  lion  to  be  shown.) 
Each  man's  his  castle  —  not  his  house  alone, 
His  wife,  his  child,  his  dog,  are  castles  too. 
A  stranger  is  the  enemy,  opposed 
By  threatening  outworks  of   reserve  and  pride, 
Through  which  with  caution  he  must  work  his  way. 


GIVES   HIS   VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  159 

Once  entered,  all  is  honest,  simple,  frank. 

You  are  not  quick  to  feel  where  you  give  pain, 

And  oft  indifference  hurts  us  most  of  all, 

As  a  blunt  knife  will  make  the  worst  of    wounds. 

But  for  the  brain  as  well  as  for  the  heart, 

I  will  not  own  a  better  can  be  found 

In  all  wide  Europe  than  in  Italy. 

Priest-ride  your  people,  crush  them  'neath   the  heel 

Of  despots  till  no  spark  of  freedom  's  left, 

Put  down  your  press  and  schools,  and  see  at  last, 

If  you  are  better  than  the  worst  of  us. 

I  know  your  answer  —  'tis  a  grand  one  too, 

"  We  carved  our  freedom  with  our  own  right  hands  ; 

Do  you  carve  yours."     Ah !    many  a  time  we  have 

Carved  that  great  figure  to  be  overthrown 

And  haled  by  Europe  down  into  the  dust ; 

Beside,  position  worked  for  you,  and  chance  ; 

You  are  an  island  guarded  by  wild  waves, 

Round  which  the  storm  flames  with  its  fiery  sword, 

With  a  rude  coast  that  battlements  you  round  — 

And  these  are  armies  to  ward  off  attack. 


160  THE   MAKCHESE   CASTELLO 

Then,   too,    your    climate 's    chill,    and    wants    the 

charms 

That  breed  desire  and  lure  the  foreign  foe. 
We,  all  exposed,  with  thousand  easy  ports, 
A  lovely  landscape  and  a  gentle  sky, 
Have  been  the  fighting-ground  for  centuries, 
Where  foreign  foes  have  stirred  domestic  feuds  — 
For  who  could  help  to  covet  what  they  saw  ? 
But  I  admit  your  grand  advantages ; 
None  honors  more  your  struggles  for  yourselves, 
None  envies  more  your  Freedom  —  stretch  to  us 
Your  hand  and  help  us  when  we  fight  for  ours. 
And  when  you  scout  at  us  as  ignorant, 
Ready  in  crime,  and  apt  for  cruel  rule, 
Look  at  your  factories  and  mines  at  home, 
Look  at  the  purlieus  of  your  London  world, 
And  tell  me  have  we  any  thing  so  bad  ? 

One  thing  among  us  never  is  crushed  out, 
One  thing  that  we  above  all  nations  have  — 
The  love  of  beauty  and  the  frank,  sweet  smile, 


GIVES   HIS    VIEWS   ON   ITALY.  161 

And  that  best  courtesy  born  of  the  heart. 
No  !   not  the  rudest  peasant,  who  all  day 
Dreams  on  his  staff  and  tends  his  nibbling  sheep 
Among  the  ruins,  is  without  them  all. 
The  very  beggar,  with  his  tattered  cloak 
Thrown  o'er  his  shoulder,  shows  his  proud  descent ; 
You  feel  the  gens  togata  lives  in  him. 
And  for  the  highest  ranks  (excuse  the  boast) 
You  will  not  find  more  dignity  and  grace,- 
At  once  more  simpleness  and  elegance, 
Than  in  our  best  society  in  Rome. 
At  least,  I  have  not  seen  it — What  say  you? 
The  Englishman  is  conscious,  awkward,  cold  ; 
The  Frenchman  fidgetty,  and  wants  repose  ; 
The  German  clumsy,  always  without  tact. 
I  speak  of  manner,  not  of  matter  now, 
I  say  this  just  to  show  how  easily 
We  might  retort  on  what  they  say  of  us. 
But  then  again,  I  cannot  help  but  own 
We've  not  the  sparkling  esprit  of  the  French, 
Nor  yet  the  heartless  sneer  that  spoils  it  so. 
11 


162  THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO 

We  've  not  the  German's  metaphysic  depth, 
And  not  his  dulness  and  his  uncouth  ways. 
We  've  not  your  quietness  of  character, 
Your  cold,  still  energies  —  we  also  want 
Your  servile  admiration  for  a  lord. 

I  know  as  well  as  any  we  have  faults, 
Great  faults  —  the  greatest  of  them,  jealousy. 
We  never  can  cohere.     We  may  be  packed 
Like  sand-grains  by  the  stress  of  some  great  force, 
But  dry  and  crumble  easily  apart ; 
Yet  better  than  all  others  we  have  writ 
The  laws  of  politics  and  government, 
And  we  alone  in  Europe  represent 
By  all  our  history,  all  our  struggles  fierce 
For  Freedom,  all  our  great  plebeian  names, 
The  truly  democratic  element. 

We  need  development ;   and  so  would  you, 
Crushed  'neath  a  despotism  stern  as  ours, 
Yet  one  would  think,  to  hear  your  countrymen, 


GIVES   HIS   VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  163 

That  all  our  breed  of  noble  minds  was  dead, 

That  learning,  genius,  power  had  all  died  out. 

Yet  not  unknown  to  science  are  the  names 

That  Brocchi,  Volta,  and  Galvani  bore  ; 

Nor  Romagnosi's,  in  the  highest  walk 

Of  Jurisprudence.     As  Historians,  too, 

Micali,  Rossi,  Botta,  and  Cantii 

May  surely  hold  an  honorable  place. 

And  in  Philology,  who  stand  above 

Our  Mezzofanti  or  our  learned  Mai. 

But  in  Romance,  and  Poetry,  and  Art, 

What  scores  of  names  —  I  will  not  call  them  o'er, 

All  scholars  know  them.  —  Even  while  I  write, 

Ruffini  adds  to  you  and  us  a  name. 

I  do  not  count  it  a  surprise  to  find 
We  do  so  little,  but  we  do  so  much 
With  France  and  Austria  treading  on  our  neck. 
Take  off  that  pressure,  —  see  our  Piedmont 
Start  like  a  giant  up.     Five  years  ago 
She  was  a  child,  already  she  's  a  power. 


164  THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO 

You  said,  how  short  a  time  ago,  to  her 
Just  what  you  say  to  us.     Give  us  a  chance, 
The  seed  is  good  —  in  free  soil  it  would  grow. 

But  of  all  people,  in  our  earnest  hope 
For  freedom,  least  of  sympathy  we  get 
From  Anglo-Saxon  blood,  whether  it  be 
On  your  cold  island,  or  beyond  the  sea, 
America  —  and  from  the  last  the  least. 
"  Only  too  good  for  them  the  government, 
They  're  only  fit  to  trample  on,"    'tis  said  ; 
"  What !  Liberty  for  them  —  why  that 's  a  boon 
No  nation's  fit  to  have  —  excepting  ours." 

Who  taught  to  them  their  sea-laws  ?     From  whose 

code 
Did   commerce   draw   its  rules  ?     What    merchants 

vied 

With  those  of  Florence,  Genoa,  Venice?     Where 
Got    they    their    phrase    of  "  Merchant  Princes  ? " 

Say! 


GIVES   HIS   VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  165 

I  will  not  speak  of  art,  —  that, '«  wanting  yet, 

And  always  will  be  in  their  history, — 

But  will  they  blow  us  some  fine  Venice  glass  ? 

Or  build  us  roads  like  the  Cornice  road? 

Or  weave  us  velvets  like  the  Genoese, 

Or  Tuscan  silks  ?  ...  I  see  you  smile  at  me, 

I  was  too  warm,  and  so  would  you  be  too ; 

For  of  all  people  they  should  surely  have 

A  generous  sympathy,  at  least,  for  us ; 

We  found  their  world,  and  wrote  their  history  first. 

Not  that  I  know  these  people  —  no  !   not  I ! 
I  only  take  your  own  account  of  them, 
One  never  meets  them  in  society ; 
I  never  knew  but  one  —  I  must  confess 
We  took  a  fancy,  all  of  us,  to  him, 
And  he  liked  us  almost  too  well,  I  fear. 
As  for  the  rest,  some  pretty,  fragile  girl, 
Who  on  the  Pincio's  terrace  now  and  then 
Is  pointed  out  —  is  all  I  know  of  them. 


166  THE    MARCHESE    CASTELLO 

In  fact,  our  notions  somewhat  are  confused 
'Twixt  you  and  them  —  nay,  do  not  take  it  ill  — 
They  speak  your  language,  and  we  know  them  not ; 
They  may  be  all  you  say,  for  what  we  know, 
And  yet  I  hope  you  are  not  just  to  them. 

I  love  my  Italy  —  and  when  I  see 
Conceited  upstarts,  from  whatever  land, 
(Yours,  my  dear  friend,  as  well  as  all  the  rest,) 
Whose  friends  are  couriers,  and  that  rabble  vile 
That  haunts  the  traveller  as  the  jackal  haunts 
The  lion's  steps  ;  or  rather,  like  those  wolves 
That  ring  about  the  wounded  buffalo 
With  their  white,  snarling  halo,  —  when,  I  say, 
Such  fellows,  puffed  with  purse-proud  ignorance, 
Who  speak  no  language  but  their  own,  nor  know 
Our  history  or  hopes,  go  hurrying  through, 
And  sneer,  "  These  fellows  have  what  they  deserve, 
Freedom  for  them  is  just  too  good  a  joke," 
It  stirs  my  blood,  —  I  see,  too,  it  stirs  yours. 


GIVES   HIS   VIEWS   ON   ITALY.  167 

But  why  complain  ?   you  make  the  same  mistake 
Among  all  people  —  what 's  the  Frenchman's  type  ? 
The  dancing  master  with  grimacing  airs  — 
The  German's  but  a  smoking,  bearded  boor  — 
And  yours,  you  ought  at  least  to  know  yourself, 
A  dull  John  Bull,  with  an  enormous  paunch. 

Mark,  now,  how  inconsistently  you  speak  ? 
First,  we  are  far  too  fierce  and  unrestrained 
In  all  our  passions  to  bear  Liberty  ; 
Then  we  're  so  weak,  and  tame,  and  cowardly, 
We  suffer  wrongs  which  we  might  purge  with  blood. 

What  do  we  want  ?    what  have  we  ever  asked 
That  raises  thus  the  pity  and  contempt 
Of  your  free  nations  ?     All  we  ask  is  this  — 
Not  a  republic  yet,  no  wild  vague  schemes, 
But  some  f^ee  privilege  of  government, 
Some  chamber  where  the  people  shall  have  voice 
To  urge  their  rights  and  tell  their  grievances ; 
Free  schools,  a  free  press,  and  the  right  to  speak. 


168  THE   MARCHESE    CASTELLO 

We  ask  for  something  more  than  simply  priests 
To  govern  and  direct,  —  we  ask  for  Law, 
For  Justice,  and  for  open  unbribed  courts. 
We  ask  a  chance  for  Commerce  and  for  Trade  — 
Railroads  to  chain  our  glorious  land  together, 
And  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  once  were  ours. 

I  do  not  dare  to  trust  myself  to  speak 
Of  what  has  happened  down  in  Naples  there,  — 
All  words  are  weak  to  utter  what  I  would  ; 
Crimes  such  as  those  are  punished  not  by  words, 
But  acts,  —  and  as  there  lives  a  God  in  heaven, 
A  day  will  come  for  retribution  soon. 

We  are  not  ready  then  for  Liberty  ! 
But  with  such  yoke  as  now  weighs  on  our  neck 
How  can  we  grow  more  ready  ?     How  attain 
The  stature  of  the  man  that  in  us  is  ? 
Give  us  a  high  room,  where  no  longer  cramped 
By  the  low  ceiling  of  our  prison  cell, 
We  may  at  least  strive  to  stand  up  erect, 


GIVES   HIS   VIEWS    ON   ITALY.  169 

As  best  we  may  with  these  bent  frames  of  ours. 
But  tell  us  not  to  stand  up  in  our  cell ! 
Give  us  a  chance !    the  heart  and  mind  of  man 
Need  freedom  as  the  very  flowers  need  light. 
You  do  not  say  the  plant  all  pale  and  blanched 
In  the  dark  cellar,  is  not  fit  for  day 
Because  it  changes  not  to  green  at  once, 
Without  the  daylight;  —  so,  you  do  not  say 
First  learn  to  swim  before  you  wet  your  feet. 
Men  grow  to  Freedom,  and  not  all  at  once, 
Full  and  complete  in  all  her  panoply, 
Spring  like  Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jove. 
Bear  with  us;   if  we  make  mistakes  at  first, 
Our  sad  experience  is  our  surest  help ! 
But  now  betwixt  the  bayonets  and  cowls, 
Small  chance  for  heart  and  mind  to  grow  at  all. 

Pardon,  my  friend,  for  this  long  talk  of  mine, 
And  for  my  foolish  boasting   and  my  warmth  ! 
But  why  ask  pardon  ?    You  love  Italy, 
And  you  are  almost  one  of  us,  —  how  else 
Had  I  dared  say  the  words  that  I  have  said  ? 


170  THE   MARCHESE   CASTELLO 

Pray  do  not  go !    I  wish  you  to  admire 

This  charming  little  group  of  Vieux  Saxe 

I  bought  in  Rome  last  week,  —  I  paid  too  much, 

But  'tis  so  delicately,  nicely  done  ! 

'T  is  sad  the  art  is  so  entirely  lost ;  — 

This  has  the  very  spirit  of  Watteau  ; 

But  those  the  moderns  make  in  Dresden  now, 

Are  rude  and  clumsy  like  a  journeyman's. 

Do  you  walk  now  ?     If  so  I  '11  go  with  you  — 

I've  painted  here  so  long  I  must  refresh 

My  eye  with  nature.     If  you  please,  we  '11  go 

Along  the  galleria  by  the  Lake. 

To-day 's  a  festa  —  we  '11  be  sure  to  meet, 

Up  by  the  Reformati's  convent  church 

The  coritadine  in  their  best  costumes. 

And  don't  forget  to-morrow  !    by  the  way  — 

Our  friends  are  coming  from  the  Villas  round 

Beyond  Frascati  to  our  rustic  ball, 

And  all  the  pretty  contadine  too, 

With  their  gallants,  dressed  in  their  choicest  trim  ; 


GIVES   HIS    VIEWS    ON    ITALY.  171 

The  village  band  will  play  for  us  to  dance, 
And  you  will  see  our  true  democracy, 
The  peasants  and  the  princes,  hand  in  hand, 
Not  with  that  dreadful  condescending  way 
Perhaps  you  fancy  —  but  as  friend  with  friend. 

Pardon !    I  '11  open  you  that  lock  of  ours, 
You  do  not  know  the  trick,  —  you  pull  this  string : 
The  lock  is  broken,  —  not  the  only  thing 
That 's  out  of  order  in  our  Italy  ; 
And  there  's  a  trick  to  open  every  door. 
Ah,  Fra  Antonio,  you'll  excuse  me  now  — 
Some  other  time  —  you  see  I  'm  now  engaged. 


THE    BATTLE     OF    MORAT. 

OUR  men  fought  well  at  Morat!    They  fought  like 

lions,  boy, 
Like  lions,  that  within   their   lair   the   hunter  dares 

annoy. 
Ah  !   now  I  'm  old,  but   I  was  then    a   boy  as  you 

are  now, 
And  this  old  tree  was  nothing  but  a  bit  of  broken 

bough. 

Tis  sixty  good  long  years  ago  —  how  fast  the  years 

go  by, 
Since    we    crushed,    that    deadly  day  of  June,  the 

hosts  of  Burgundy  ; 
The  morning  threatened   thick  with   cloud,  a  weird 

and  solemn  gloom 
Hung  o'er  the  town  —  the  empty  streets  were  silent 

as  a  tomb, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT.          173 

Save  here   and   there  where   little   groups  with  sad 

and  anxious  brow, 
Old   men,    and    boys,    and    women,   were    gathered 

talking  low, 
Recounting   news  of  Burgundy   in   words   of  doubt 

and  fear, 
Or  tales  of  our  own  mountain  strength  their  trembling 

hearts  to  cheer. 

Some  wrung  their  hands  the  while  they  spoke  —  in 

many  a  maiden's  eye 
The  slow  tears  brimmed,  the    pale    mouth  twitched 

in  secret  agony, 
And   old    men    sadly  shook    their    heads,  while    at 

their  mother's  side 
Children  were   pulling   at   their    gowns,  and  asking 

why  they  cried  ? 

Sad  o'er  us  hung  the  sullen  sky,  —  our  hearts  were 
dark  with  gloom, 

When  suddenly  the  cannon's  peal,  with  heavy  muf 
fled  boom, 


1T4          THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT. 

Rolled  dully  smiting  on  the  heart,  that  for  a  mo 
ment  stilled, 

Stopped  in  the  breast,  then  wildly  like  a  hurried 
drum-beat  thrilled. 

'Twas  then,  ere  rang  their   battle-cry,  our  brothers 

in  the  field 
Bared  their  stern   brows,  and  on   the   earth  to  ask 

God's  blessing  kneeled  ; 
And    Hans   Von    Hall wy  11    lifted,    while    all    were 

silent  there, 
Mid    the    thunder  voice  of  cannon,  the    still,  small 

voice  of  prayer. 

The  heavens  hung  low  and  gloomy  above  them  lowly 

bowed, 
But  as  they  prayed  the  sudden  sun   broke  through 

the  shattered  cloud 
And  flashed   across    their  bended    ranks,  and  Hall- 

wyll  from  his  knee, 
Sprang  shouting  —  Up  !    behold,  God  lights  the  way 

to  victory ! 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MORAT.  175 

Ah,  why  was  I  not  with  them  ?  why  was  I  doomed 
to  stay, 

An  idle  boy  to  range  along  the  ramparts  all  that 
day? 

The  cannon  thrilled  my  startled  blood  —  the  Lands- 
horn  shrilly  cried, 

Flee  from  old  men  and  women !  strike  for  freedom 
at  our  side  ! 

Alas,  I   could    not    flee   from   them !    half  mad    in 

heart  and  brain, 
I  watched  with   them  the   smoke-cloud   cling  along 

the  distant  plain  ; 
We  strained  our  eyes  in  vain,  —  we  seemed  to  hear 

with  nervous  ears, 
The   battle    cry  of    Burgundy  —  the   Eidgenossen's 

cheers. 

We  fought  with  them  in  spirit  in  the  tumult  of  the 

fight, 
We   swung   our   swords   with   Hallwyll   for  Liberty 

and  Eight, 


176          THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT. 

With  Waldman's  band  of  rugged  Swiss  adown  the 

hill  we  clove 
Through  the  shining  helms  of  Burgundy,  as  through 

some  tall  pine  grove 

Our  avalanches  thunder  —  We  crushed  them  to  the 

earth, 
We    swept    them    from    the    hill-side    with   a   wild 

exultant  mirth  — 
We  slid  upon  their   horsemen,  and   hurled   them  to 

the  lake 
In  terror   and   confusion  —  as    the    landslides  when 

they  break 

Adown  our  mountain   gorges,  —  in  a  heap  of  steel 

and  blood. 
And    shattered    cuirasses    and    helms,    they    rolled 

into  the  flood  ; 
Their  hands  that  gleamed  with  diamonds  in  vain  they 

lifted  high, 
As  the  red  wave  bubbled  over   them,  and  drowned 

their  fearful  cry. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT.          177 

We    rushed   with   old   Yon   Hertenstein,  his   white 

hair  streaming  free, 
Where  Hallwyll  battled  with  the   pride  of  knightly 

Burgundy ; 
With    the    mountain    force    of    stout   Lucerne    we 

sheared  them  from  the  plain, 
And  mowed  their  glittering  sheaves  of  spears,  like 

fields  of  autumn  grain ! 

What  served  their  Orders  then  to  them,  their  proud 
and  knightly  blood? 

It  stained  the  grass  and  lay  in  pools  amid  the 
trampled  mud  ; 

Their  jewelled  chains  we  scattered  —  and  on  gleam 
ing  breast  and  brain, 

Our  great  swords  rattling  in  their  ears  played 
Liberty's  refrain. 

Leap !    baffled   Duke   of  Burgundy,  —  leap   on  thy 

swiftest  steed ! 
The  Bear   of  Berne  is  after   thee  —  spur   at  thine 

utmost  need ! 

12 


178  THE   BATTLE   OF   MOKAT. 

Plunge  in  that  reeking,  quivering  flank,  thy  golden 

spur,  and  flee 
Till    his    nostrils    gush    with    blood    and    steam  — 

Lucerne  is  hunting  thee. 

Leave,  leave  upon  the  hill-side  your  twenty  thousand 

slain, 
Leave  in  the   lake   your  heaps   of  dead,  its  waves 

with  gore  to  stain. 
Speed  !    speed  !    and  when   night  darkens   down  — 

blown,  beaten,  blasted,  stand, 
With  only  thirty  ghastly  horsemen  left  of  all  your 

band. 

Such   hope    as   this    was    thrilling  us  the  while  we 

leaned  and  gazed, 
With  clenching  hands,  and   young  fierce  eyes,  and 

cheeks  that  hotly  blazed  ; 
But    oft    the   fear    of  dread    defeat,  and    conquest 

pouring  down 
Above  our  murdered,  shattered  ranks  to  deluge  all 

the  town 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT.          179 

With  rapine  and  with  ravage,  knocked   against  our 

hearts  with  dread ; 
"We  heard  the  crackling  rafters  crash  above  our  fated 

head, 
We  saw  the  red  flames  lick  the  air  and  glare  against 

the  sky, 
And  'mid  the  screams  of  women  rang  the  clash  of 

soldiery. 

At  last  the  distant  thunder  ceased  —  and  as  we 
strained  our  eyes 

We  saw  above  the  road's  far  ridge  a  little  dust- 
cloud  rise ; 

And  on  it  came,  and  on,  and  on,  upon  the  dry 
white  road, 

Until  a  dark  and  moving  spot  like  a  running  figure 
showed. 

News  from   the   field !    what  news,  what   news  ?  — 

alas,  our  brothers  fly! 
No,  no,  he  waves  a  branch  of  lime  —  that  tells  of 

Victory. 


180  THE  BATTLE  OF  MORAT. 

He  staggers,  wounded,  on,  he  reels,  he  faints  be 
side  the  gate  ; 

Speak  !  speak !  —  he  cannot  speak  —  and  yet  'tis 
agony  to  wait. 

We  gather  round,  as  through  the  street  with  reel 
ing,  staggering  pace, 

He  falls  along  —  and  panting,  points  towards  the 
market  place. 

There,  while  the  blood  starts  from  his  mouth,  he 
waves  the  branch  on  high, 

And  with  a  last  faint  shout  expires,  exclaiming, 
Victory. 

That  branch  of  lime  we  planted  in  the  spot  where 
on  he  fell, 

And  there  it  took  its  root,  and  throve,  and  spread 
its  branches  well, 

And  you  shall  sit  beneath  its  shade,  as  now  we 
sit,  when  I 

Am  dust  — and  say,  "My  Grandsire  brought  that 
branch  of  Victory." 


THE    PINE. 

ALONE,  without  a  friend  or  foe, 
Upon  the  rugged  cliff  I  stand 
And  see  the  valley  far  below 

Its  social  world  of  trees  expand  ; 
A  hermit  pine  I  muse  above, 
And  dream  and  wait  for  her  I  love, 
For  her,  the  fanciful  and  free 
That  brings  my  purest  joy  to  me. 

Oft  dancing  from  the  laughing  sea 
When  morning  blazes  on  my  crest, 

All  wild  with  life  and  gayety 

She  springs  to  me  with  panting  breast. 

Her  sun-spun  ringlets  loosely  blown, 


182  THE   PINE. 

And  eyes  that  seem  the  dawn  to  own, 

She  greets  me  with  impetuous  air 

And  shakes  the  dew-drops  from  my  hair. 

At  midnight  as  I  stand  asleep, 

While  constellations  stream  above, 
I  hear  her  up  the  mountain  creep 

With  sighs  and  whispers  full  of  love : 
There  in  my  arms  she  gently  lies, 
And  breathes  mysterious  melodies, 
And  with  her  childlike  winning  ways 
Among  my  leaves  and  branches  plays. 

Heaped  in  the  winter's  snowy  shroud, 

With  icy  fingers  to  each  limb, 
Or  drenched  by  summer's  thunder-cloud, 

Of  her,  and  her  alone,  I  dream  ; 
And  where  the  trees  are  bending  low, 
And  the  broad  lake  with  crisped  flow, 
Darkens  its  face  despite  the  sun, 
I  watch  her  through  the  valley  run. 


THE   PINE.  183 

Sometimes  when  parched  in  summer  noon, 
She  brings  me  odors  from  the  east, 

And  draws  a  cloud  before  the  sun 
And  fans  me  into  peaceful  rest. 

In  my  siesta  while  I  drowse 

She  rustling  slips  amid  my  boughs, 

And  teases  me,  the  while  that  I 

In  dreamy  whispers  make  reply. 

Sometimes  as  if  in  fierce  despair, 
The  tears  of  passion  on  her  face, 

With  tempest  locks  and  angry  air 

She  round  me  flings  her  wild  embrace, 

And  sobs,  and  moans,  and  madly  storms, 

And  struggles  in  my  aching  arms 

Until  the  wild  convulsion  past 

She  falls  away  to  sleep  at  last. 

And  if  my  fate  at  length  ordain 
This  fallen  trunk  of  mine  to  bear 


THE    PIXE. 

Some  stately  vessel  o'er  the  main, 

I  know  she'll  not  forget  me  there. 
And  oft  the  sailor  mid  the  gale, 
Above  my  corse  shall  hear  her  wail 
And  sob  with  tears  of  agony, 
Far  out  on  the  Atlantic  sea. 


VENICE. 

THERE  he  lies,  stabbed  by  your  dagger ! 

Ah !    'tis  too  late  for  remorse,  now, 
Will  all  your  weeping  and  kind  words 

Give  back  the  life  to  his  corse,  now  ? 
'Tis  my  heart's  blood  on  your  point  there, 

Fling  it  away  I  implore  you, — 
Mad,  rash  Peppino !    I  hate  you 

As  much  as  I  used  to  adore  you. 

Ah,  yes !    the  old  man  provoked  you ! 

What  of  it  ?     Here  when  he  caught  us 
All  looked  so  wrong  —  He  knew  nothing — 

And — see  where  one  wild  act  has  brought  us. 
He  was  my  Father  —  my  Father  — 

'Tis  well  that  you  're  silent  !    what  words  now 


186  VENICE. 

Can  bridge  o'er  the  crime  that  disparts  us, 
Or  mend  again  Life's  broken  chords,  now  ? 

See  !    that  white  rose  which  I  gave  you 

Is  spotted  with  red  blood  —  ah,  heaven ! 
Every  thing's  lost  —  How  I  loved  you ! 

But  such  crime  can  be  never  forgiven ! 
Never !  no  never !    his  blood  there 

Would  cry  out  against  us  to  blast  us  — 
Hark  !    there  's  a  noise  in  the  palace  ! 

What  was  that  gleam  that  shot  past  us  ? 

Fly !    see  the  torches  are  coming, 

The  steps  on  the  pavement  draw  nearer  ! 
Fly !    there's  the  voice  of  Alberto, 

And  his  scabbard  rings  clearer  and  clearer. 
There  lies  the  gondola  yonder, 

There,  that  black  spot  in  the  distance  ; 
I  '11  swear  'twas  a  bravo  that  struck  him 

Before  he  could  draw  for  resistance. 


VENICE.  187 

Fly,  dearest,  fly !    I  '11  forgive  you, 

Never  upbraid  you,  but  love  you 
Dearer  than  ever,  if  only 

You'll  fly.  —  Is  there  nothing  will  move  you? 
Flyt — Ah  my  God!    'tis  too  late  now  ! 

Their  torches  upon  us  are  streaming, 
And  there's  blood  on  your  face  and  your  doublet  — 

Ah  God  —  is  this  real  or  dreaming  ? 


THE     LOCUST. 

VOICE  of  Summer,  hidden  from  the  eye 
In  the  sunny  tree's  green  privacy, 

Fiery  locust  —  shrill  again,  again  ! 
Drunk  with  sunshine  —  free  of   work  and  care, 
Happy  idler,  while  the  world  is  fair, 
Sing  to  us  from  out  thy  leafy  lair, 

Praise  of  idleness  to  soothe  our  pain. 

What  is  hotter  than  that  voice  of  thine  ! 
Like  a  sunbeam  stinging  sharp  and  fine 

Through  the  inmost  chambers  of  the  brain  ; 
Burning  with  the  noonday's  sultry  glare, 
Shining  dust  and  glassy  simmering  air, 
Skies  of  brass,  blear  sands,  and  deserts  bare, 

Is  the  fierce  sirocco  of  thy  strain. 


THE   LOCUST.  189 

Though  the  blinds  are  shut  and  all  the  room 
Shrouded  softly  in  a  cool,  half  gloom, 

Thy  shrill  voice  the  burning  out-world  sings,  — 
While  the  fig-tree  scratches  at  the  blind, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  grape  spray,  twined 
Round  the  balcony,  with  every  wind 

Moves  across  the  casement  as  it  swings. 

Ah !   how  sweet  that  dear  Italian  tune 
Thou  art  singing  !    In  the  burning  noon 

Dreams  the  shepherd  by  the  ruined  tomb  — 
On  his  staff  he  leans  —  the  while  his  sheep 
Round  the  wall's  scant  shadow  nibbling  creep, 
And  the  bearded  goats  rear  up  and  peep 

Through    the     rifts     and     browse    the    poppy's 
bloom. 

In  the  fields  the  peasant  feels  the  sun, 
Beating  more  intolerably  down 

While  thou  singest  —  as  he  panting  stands, 


190 


THE   LOCUST. 


Breast  high  in  the  grain,  or  hid  between 
Trellised  vines  that  o'er  their  cany  screen 
Topple,  waving  all  their  thick-leaved  green, 
Plucking  purple  grapes  with  double  hands. 

In  the  villa,  checkered  sun  and  shade 
Spot  the  broken  moss-rough  balustrade, 

And  a  silver  net-work  o'er  the  rail 
Flashes  from  the  basin's  quivering  tides  — 
Through  the  grass  the  sudden  lizard  slides 
Up  the  wall  —  and  stands  with  tremulous  sides, 

Gleaming  in  his  green  enamelled  mail. 

Now  the  sun  the  wasp-stung  nectarine  rots, 
Freckles  o'er  the  rusty  apricots, 

And  distends  the  grape's  thin  skin  with  wine  ; 
Now  the  glowing  orange  drops  and  breaks  — 
Apples  strain  their  tight  and  shining  cheeks, 
And  the  smooth,  green,  lazy  melon  takes 

Its  siesta  in  the  coiling  vine. 


THE   LOCUST.  191 

Childhood's  voice  is  in  thy  fiery  clirr, 
Olden  summer  memories  thou  canst  stir, 

Golden  visions  we  no  more  shall  see  : 
Thou  canst  bid  the  pictured  past  arise 
To  the  wanderer's  heart,  who  dying  lies, 
Jar  from  home,  and  to  his  closing  eyes 

Summon  up  its  lost  felicity. 

Yes  !    he  treads  again  the  garden  ground, 
Which  his  childish  feet  once  pattered  round ; 

Where  the  clustering  oleanders  tower  — 
Where,  while  rocking  on  its  flowery  stalk, 
Bees  he  prisoned  in  the  hollyhock, 
Listening  to  their  buzz  of  angry  talk, 

As  they  struggled  in  the  crumpled  flower. 

There  the  sunflower's  shield  of  brown  and  gold, 
Flaming  in  the  noonday  gay  and  bold, 

Topples  on  its  tall  o'erburdened  stem  ; 
There  the  currants  hang  their  ruddy  beads  — 
There  its  flower-globes  the  hydrangea  spreads  — 


192  THE   LOCUST. 

There  the  spicy  pink  its  odor  sheds 
From  its  painted  petals  fringed  hem. 

And  a  little  hand  is  in  his  own 

Whose  warm  pressure  never  more  is  known, 

Who  was  taken  in  her  childish  bloom ; 
But  those  sunny  curls  still  seem  to  float 
On  the  air  the  while  he  hears  thy  note, 
And  her  spirit  wavers  through  his  thought, 

Like  a  sunbeam  in  a  darkened  room. 

Voices  full  of  wild  and  childish  glee  — 
Faces  he  again  shall  never  see, 

Are  around  him  while  thy  voice  he  hears. 
And  the  ticking  watch  ticks  not  so  loud 
In  that  silent  room  that  shutters  shroud, 
And  the  cautious  figure  o'er  him  bowed, 

Through  his  dying  eyelids  sees  the  tears. 

Chirp  away,  then,  happy  summer  guest, 
Bringing  unto  every  human  breast 


THE   LOCUST.  193 


Summer  visions,  early  memories, — 
Trill  thy  gauzy  wings,  and  let  us  hear 
Through  the  noon's  intensest  atmosphere 
Thy  fine  clarion  sounding  shrilly  clear, 

Praise  of  summer  idleness  and  ease. 

CASTEL  GANDOLFO,  August,  1852. 


13 


BETWEEN     TWELVE    AND    O  N E . 

AFTER  the  merry  Twelve's  trochaic, 

Often  I  watch  alone 
The  smouldering  log,  with  its  coal-mosaic 

Like  the  antique  pavement  stone  — 
The  flame-tongues  licking  —  the  sharp  clock  ticking 

On  to  the  solemn   One. 

The  jesters  are  gone,  the  play  is  over, 

The  ghosts  alone  remain  ; 
A  song  and  a  sigh  together  hover 

Over  the  dreaming  brain  ; 
To  visions  tender  my  soul  I  surrender, 

And  sweet  memorial  pain. 

The  wine  in  the  half-quaffed  glass  is  gleaming  — 
And  into  the  stifled  air 


BETWEEN   TWELVE   AND    ONE.  195 

The  smoke  of  the  blown-out  candle  is  streaming, 

And  empty  is  every  chair, — 
And  never,  ah!    never,  with  all  our  endeavor, 

Will  the  guests  again  be  there. 

Thus,  when  the  Twelve  go  out  and  leave  me, 

And  every  voice  has  ceased, 
I  wait  for  the  One  that  comes  to  shrive  me 

Like  a  single  mournful  priest, 
To  list  to  the  lesson  of  sad  confession, 

By  the  last  guest  at  the  feast. 

Were  we  all  wrong  that  round  the  table 

Laughed  with  a  merry  heart, 
And  drank  Life's  bright  wine  while  we  were  able, 

Playing  the  gayest  part  — 
Because  with  the  morrow  cometh  sorrow, 

And  tears  from  the  eyelids  start? 


TO    J—    S  — . 

THERE  sounds  the  drum  in  the  street, 

And  the  soldiers  are  marching  by, 
And  the  trumpet  sounds,  —  but  thy  little  feet 

Are  still  —  and  thy  joyous  cry 
Will  never  that  marching  greet, 

Oh  !    never,  never,  again  ! 
Nor  thy  sunny  form  at  the  window  stand 

To  list  to  that  martial  strain ; 
Yet  I  cannot  but  think  I  shall  hear  thy  voice, 

Though  I  know  the  thought  is  vain. 

I  think  of  thee  often  as  gone 

For  only  a  summer's  day, 
In  these  earthly  gardens  laughing  to  run 

With  thy  friends  at  thy  human  play. 


TO   J  —  .    S 


197 


I  dream,  when  the  day  is  done 
I  shall  hear  thy  foot  on  the  stair, 

And  welcome  thee  back  with  thine  innocent  face 
And  thy  frank,  pure,  noble  air,  - 

And  kiss  thee  again,  and  see  thee  again, 
Till  the  dream  is  like  despair. 


Up  in  a  sunnier  field, 

I  know  thou  art  playing  now, 
And  a  purer  day  to  thine  eyes  unsealed 

And  a  light  on  thine  angel  brow,— 
And  over  and  over  again 

I  Say5  —  "  He  is  happier  now, 
He  never  will  suffer  the  pain 

That  is  knitting  this  human  brow, 
But  ah!   for  us  who  must  here  remain 

How  shall  we  bear  it  —  how?" 


"  There  is  the  empty  chair 

Where  he  always  used  to  sit, 
But  his  little  figure  no  more  is  there, 


198  TO  j  — .  s  — . 

A  ghost  now  sits  in  it. 
It  sits,  and  it  will  not  rise 

To  leave  it  a  moment's  space  — 
Forever  there  in  the  empty  place  ; 

I  see  through  my  streaming  eyes 
The  shadowy  shape  of  that  noble  grace 

That  has  gone  into  the  skies. 

"  The  little  stubbed-out  shoes 

That  he  always  used  to  wear, 
The  little  dress,  with  its  pockets  filled 

With  his  trifles,  is  lying  there  — 
How  living  to  me  they  seem." 

And  I  gaze  at  them,  and  gaze 
As  if  in  a  sort  of  dream, 

Recalling  the  vanished  days 
When  he  sported  in  them  by  hill  and  stream, 

All  the  happy  summer  days. 

My  little  beloved  boy ! 

Even  where  thou  art,  in  heaven, 


TO   J  —  .    S  —  . 


199 


There  never  can  be  a  purer  joy 

Than  thou  to  us  hast  given; 
Who  never  once  made  us  grieve 

Till  the  sad,  dark  angel  came 
And  opened  the  heaven-gates  to  receive 

Thy  spirit's  vestal  flame, 
And  thy  human  tongue  no  more  would  speak 

When  we  called  thy  beloved  name. 

ROME,  Dec.  1854. 


THE    BROKEN    HARP. 

IT  was  a  harp  that  'neath  the  poet's  hand 

In  earlier  happier  days 
Gave  forth  such  wondrous  tones,  that  all  the  land 

Re-echoed  praise. 


A  cherub's  head  looked  out  above  the  wires, 

Whose  nerves,  so  sensitive, 
Responded  to  the  singer's  wild  desires, 

And  seemed  to  live. 


The  slightest  touch  called  forth  its  music  then, 

Wild,  sorrowing,  pensive,  gay, 
Howe'er  'twas  touched,  to  hearts  of  maids  and  men 

It  found  its  way. 


THE   BROKEN   HARP.  201 

Oft  to  the  old  sweet  air  of  love  it  thrilled, 

Oft  in  the  hall  at  night 
Rang,  while  the  wine-cup  on  the  board  wTas  spilled, 

In  mad  delight. 

Behold  it  now !   how  'time,  neglect,  abuse 

Have  spoiled  that  cherub  brow ; 
Its  strings,  half  shattered  and  half  hanging  loose, 

Have  no  chords  now. 


And  when  the  singer  plays,  as  play  he  will, 

Among  these  jarring  strings, 
Ah!    what  a  sound  of  horror,  wild  and  shrill, 

The  least  touch  brings. 

There  in  the  corner  of  the  hall  it  stands, 
Cracked,  stained  with  blood  and  wine, 

The  harp  that  yielded  to  those  youthful  hands 
Sounds  half  divine. 


AUNT    RACHEL'S    STORY. 

WITH  booming  hum  the  pertinacious  bee 
Goes  beating  here  and  there,  the  butterfly 
Drifts  idly  on  the  wind,  the  feathery  buds 
Are  dangling  from  the  willow's  yellow  twigs, 
Its  limp,  green  fingers  the  horse-chestnut  spreads, 
The  daring  tulip  in  the  garden  nods, 
And  from  the  centre  of  its  painted  cup 
Thrusts    its    black    tongue.       The     Spring    returns 

again 

With  musical  breezes  and  the  trill  of  birds, 
And  furrows    dark,    fringed   by  the    young    grain's 

green, 

And  thickening  hedges  where  at  height  of  noon 
The  thin  air  simmers,  and  the  wakened  flies 
Begin  to  wheel  and  whisper  in  the  warmth. 


AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY.  203 

'Tis  May  again  —  but  how  unlike  the  May 
Of  years  ago  —  of  that  young  May  of  life 
When  aimless  as  a  summer  cloud,  the  heart, 
Freighted  with  light  and  touched  with  roseate  hues, 
Sailed  far  above  the  sordid  cares  of  earth 
In  the  pure  heaven  of  feeling.     Yes,  'tis  May, 
Not  the  old  May ;  for  May  is  changed  to  must 
Since  those  old  times,  when   love   and   hope  looked 

out 

Of  the  heart's  windows  —  when  we  both  were  girls 
In  our  first  freedom.     Yet  not  all  these  years 
Have  cloven  our  hearts  asunder  —  in  the  loam 
Of  early  memories  our  friendship  roots  — 
Thought-interlaced  like  these  two  branching  elms. 

Dear  memories  !  lofty  as  the  "  Silverhorns," 
Whose  spotless  heights  into  the  blue  sky  pierce 
To  play  with  morning,  —  yet  not  cold  and  bare 
As  those  steep  splendors,  but  with  tender  grass 
And  flowers  o'ergrown,  like  to  those  lower  slopes 
Where  tinkle  the  faint  cow-bells,  and  long  notes 


204  AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

Of  the  far  shepherd's  horn  calling  his  herds 

Float  o'er  the  air-abysses  —  pastures  fair 

Are  they  to  us,  serene  although  so  sad, 

And  brooded  over  by  a  thoughtful  haze, 

Where  herds  of  sweet  thoughts  wander  far  above 

Life's  lower  valley  lying  in  the  shade. 

Gone  are  the  blossoms  of  our  Young  Romance  — 
Alas !   the  very  leaves  are  almost  gone, 
Yet  through  the  branches  we  can  clearly  see 
Heaven's    light    that    once    was    hidden    by    their 
wealth. 

At  moments  only  can  we  feel  how  far 
Our  youth  lies  from  us  —  as  we  drift  along 
All  things  drift  with  us  —  'tis  but  now  and  then 
Some  sudden  contrast  screams  to  us  the  truth. 

"With  some  such  thought  as  this,  an  hour  ago 
I  saw  our  dear  old  friend  and  hostess  here, 
With  her  starched  widow's  cap,  prim  snowy  ruff, 


205 


And  sombre  dress,  walk  staidly  down  the  path 
And  pause  beneath  the  elms  —  then  reaching  up, 
Pluck  from  the  lilac  hedge  a  fragrant  bunch 
Wet  with  the  morning  —  rain  its  dew  away 
With  a  quick  shake  —  and  slowly  pass  along. 
I    wondered    with   what    thought   she    smelled  that 

bunch 

Of  lilac  ?   for  I  smelled  my  youth  in  it. 
The  flower,  her  movement,  to  my  mind  recalled, 
How  suddenly,  the  time  when  we  were  girls. 
I  saw  her  young,  slight  form,  the  happy  face 
Laughing  through  golden  hair,  and  youth's  light  step 
That  spurns  the  ground  it  clings  unto  at  last. 
Swift  as  a  shuttle  flies,  the  vision  passed 
But  left  behind  in  the  dark  weft  of  thought 
Its  brilliant  thread  that  on  the  sombre  ground 
Conspicuous  showed :    the  Past  and  Present  clashed 
Like  two  sweet  bells  that  are  not  in  accord. 
I  saw  at  once  as  in  a  magic  glass, 
This  sad,  subdued,  and  overwearied  woman, 
And  the  young,  gay,  impetuous,  laughing  girl. 


206 


You  only  knew  her  when  her  youth  was  past, 
But  not  the  same  was  she  in  face  or  mind, 
As  in  those  days  when  Love  and  Passion  throbbed 
Across  her  eloquent  cheeks,  (like  a  swift  hand 
Across  a  mystic  harp,)  and  struck  a  fire 
In  those  wild  eyes,  that  now  are  all  so  calm. 
What  zest,  what  brilliancy  wras  in  her  wit  — 
What  relish  of  Life  that  would  not  be  repressed 
In  formal  bounds  —  what  mad  delight  in  fun  — 
What  salient  girlhood.     Love  that  early  came, 
But  deepened  to  an  ample  river  depth 
The  wild  young  torrent :  unto  those  two  hearts, 
To  hers  and  Marion's,  Life  flowed  on  so  smooth  — 
They  were  so  happy,  fitting  each  to  each 
In  taste  and  temper  like  two  clasping  hands  — 
That  there  seemed  nothing  left  to  ask  of  Fate, 
It  had  not  given.     Oft  and  oft  we  said, 
Beholding  them  — "  Such  fortune  sometimes  comes 
At  happy  moments  and  to  happy  souls, 
To  give  a  footing  to  those  climbing  dreams 
The  sneering  world  calls  vaporous,  foolish,  false, 


207 


And  in  the  world  of  facts  to  keep  alive 
A  wise  belief  in  visionary  things." 

Glad  was  their  horoscope  —  no  evil  star 
Foreboded  danger  when  he  said  good-bye, 
And  parted  as  he  thought  for  three  short  months 
Across  the  ocean.     Ah!   how  blind  we  were 
Who    thought    that    Fate  would   always   brim  their 

hearts, 

As  it  had  brimmed  them.     Tremble  ye  who  have 
The  Saiman  Ring ;   oh !    ask  not  too  much  luck  ! 
And  love's  perfection  breaks  so  easily  ! 
One  drop  of  poison  cracks  a  Venice  glass. 

Three  months  he  said  —  those  three  months  slowly 

passed, 
And    month    on     month    went    following    in    their 

track, 

And  year  on  year  for  three  long   years  —  no  word 
Breaking  the  dreadful  silence  —  no  report 
Of  life  or  death,  when  no  report  was  death. 


-08  AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

As  one  who  borne  along  the  rattling  rails 
Dashes  from  sunlit  plains,  pure  air,  blue  sky, 
Down  a  chill  tunnel's  gloomy  dripping  cliffs, 
She  shot  from  life  to  death  —  nor  felt  at  first, 
After  such  glad  excess  of  love  and  light, 
The  dim  faint  lamp  left  burning  in  its  stead  ; 
But  yet  as  time  went  on  her  eye  grew  used 
To  that  more  solemn  atmosphere  of  grief, 
And  patience  served  her  in  the  place  of  love. 

Youth  suffers  sharply  but  not  long  —  it  bends 
Before  the  storm,  as  the  young  birch-tree  bends 
And  then  springs  back.     Yet  sorrow  leaves  behind 
A  poison  drop  no  art  can  purge  away 
That  taints  our  joy  —  that  kills  our  confidence. 
The  glad,  unthinking  trust  of  youth,  once  crushed, 
Is  crushed  forever.  —  So  it  was  with  her ; 
Joy,    which    before    she    owned,    seemed    now   but 

lent ; 

She  trembled  while  she  held  the  commonest  gift 
Of  daily  fortune,  and  within  herself 


AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY.  209 

Shrunk  up;    a  still  secluded  life  she  lived, 
A  life  of  memory,  books,  and  household  cares. 

} 
Years   went  —  and   love's   sweet    memories    were 

hid, 

Like  playthings  that  a  mother  fondly  hoards 
Of  her  lost  child,  long  wept  in  secret  o'er, 
And  sadly  visited  with  grief  that  time 
Made  tenderer  ever,  till  it  drew  at  last 
A  scarcefelt  veil  of  shadow  o'er  her  thought. 

o 

Her     hope   was     smothered    in    her    heart,    not 

dead. 

How  oft  a  sudden  noise  would  make  her  start, 
And  bring  a  quick  flush  in  her  cheek, —  how  oft 
Of  winter  nights,  when  we  beside  the  blaze 
Sat  cheerful,  would  she  leave  the  fireside  group 
If  the  wind  soughed  too  loudly  in  the  trees, 
Or  shook  the  windows  with  its  gusts  of  rain. 
How  oft  she  went,  without  apparent  cause, 
And  gazed  at  twilight  down  the  avenue, 
14 


210 


Like  one  expecting  something  —  and  at  times, 
How  fixed  to  go,  despite  the  cold  and  rain, 
Alone,  to  take  the  letters  from  the  post. 

Oft  at  her  father's  fireside  came  a  friend, 
Older  by  many  years,  refined  in  thought, 
Of  generous  heart  and  gentle  in  his  mien, 
With  quiet  talk  of  nature  and  of  art, 
He  cheered  her  fancies,  bore  her  oft  away 
From  the  dull  present  to  historic  times. 
By  Fancy  led,  she  trod  on  other  shores, 
Paced  galleries  thronged  by  pictured  pageantry 
Or  marble  life  — or  breathed  from  terraces 
Dark  orange  groves,  where  sang  the  nightingale 
On  Alban  slope  or  high  Fiesole 
By  old  Boccaccio's  villa ;  —  oft  she  slipped 
In  her  black  gondola  'ncath  carven  walls 
Of  shadowy  palaces,  or  in  twilight  blaze 
Beheld  St.  Marco's  glittering  crust  of  gold  ;  — 
Through  the  wild  gorges  of  the  Alps  he  bore 
Her  visionary  footsteps,  thrilled  her  heart 


AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY.  211 

With  tales  of  terror  on  those  glacial  heights 
Where  climbs  the  chamois,  or  the  tourbillon 
Drives    its    white    whirlpool    down    the   thunderous 

steeps  ; 

Across  the  desert,  up  the  slumberous  Nile 
She  journeyed  where  the  fernlike  palm-trees  grow, 
Throwing  their  shadow  on  the  blear  white  tombs, 
Or  where  black  Egypt,  with  its  palms  outspread 
On  its  close  knees,  in  marble  sadness  sits, 
Or  further  on  into  the  land  of  dreams, 
Broke  the  pomegranate  on  Arabian  ground, 
And  trod  the  city  of   Sheherazade. 

The  spoils  of  travel  hung  upon  his  walls 
Or  crammed  portfolios,  over  which  they  turned 
For  hours,  delighted  —  and  her  thoughts  this  way 
Acquired  a  happier  bias:    oft  they  walked 
Along  this  road,  where  tangled  blackberries  net 
The  loose  piled  wall,  or  late  in  the  afternoon 
I  've  seen  them  cross  the  yellow-lighted  fields. 


212  AUXT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

You  know  his  house,  built  in  the  olden  time, 
Its  spacious  rooms  —  its  entries  large  and  broad, 
Where  the  old  clock  ticked  ever  on  the  stairs, 
And  that  fair  prospect  from  the  windows  seen  ; 
I  see  it  yet.     There  lies  the  flat,  green  marsh 
On  which  the  o'er-brimming  river  at  neap  tides 
Spreads    its     broad    silver,    and    where    lightning- 
flies 

Flash  all  night  long.     There  slope  the  hills  beyond, 
Besprinkled  with  white  houses  and  dark  groves, 
Along  whose  base  the  white  snake  of  the  train 
Steals  vanishing  —  and  nearer  at  my  feet, 
Upon  the  lawn's  short  grass  at  anchor  lie 
Great  shadows,  tethered  to  the  spreading  foot 
Of  lofty  elms  that  swing  their  pendant  boughs. 
Above  the  spring-fed  pond  tall  dark-haired  pines, 
Lone  lingering  sachems  of  their  forest  tribe, 
Grouped  as  in  council,  whisper  to  the  breeze 
Their  mournful  memories.     There  in  early  frost 
Amid  their  darkness  gleamed  with  yellow  fire 


AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY.  213 

Some    slim    white    birches  :  —  there    the    sumac 

glowed 
And    showed    its   velvet    cones,  while  o'er    broad 

fields 

The  fine  oats  rippled,  and  tall  masts  of  maize 
Waived  their  green  flags   and   spilled  their  yellow 

silk. 

Such  was  the  scene  through  which  they  wandered 

oft 

And  talked  of  men  and  books  —  his  heart  the  while 
Absorbing  love  —  as  flowers  take  from  the  light 
Their  color,  slowly,  without  suddenness. 
And  one  late  afternoon  returning  home, 
That  love  found  utterance  —  unto  'her  alone 
His  words  came  with  surprise,  and  fired  a  train 
Of  smouldering  thoughts,  blind  hopes,  dear  memories 
Half  pain,  half  joy,  a  dim  confused  heap, 
Pushed  out  of  sight,  yet  wanting  but  a  touch 
To  blaze  through  every  ward  of  heart  and  brain. 


214  AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

'Twas  the  old  story  —  love,  at  first  refused, 
Renewed  its  claim  and  friendship,  second  best, 
With  admirable  reasoning  pressed  its  suit ; 
Worldly  advantage,  wealth,  position,  urged 
Their  present  claims  above  a  hopeless  love, 
And  after  tossing  to  and  fro  in  doubt, 
Reluctant  still,  yet  able  to  oppose 
Only  a  feeling  deemed  fantastical, 
A  hope  (that  floated  ever  like  a  buoy 
Above  the  wreck  of  all  her  life  and  love,) 
That  Marion  might  be  living,  might  return 
To  make  her  his,  she  yielded  her  consent. 

I  was  her  bridesmaid  —  tremblingly  and  pale 
She  stood  before  the  altar,  when  she  pledged 
Her  heart  to  his  ;   but  when  the  rites  were  o'er 
She  grew  composed  —  a  flush  of  color  came 
Into  her  delicate  cheek,  and,  with  a  smile, 
She  bade  us  all  good-bye  —  as  if  she  said, 
The  Past  is  Past,  welcome  the  Future  now. 


215 


Sitting  beside  her  when  a  month  had  passed, 
In  pleasant  talk  of  friends,  which  deepening  on, 
Touched  on  her  early  grief,  and  the  lost  hopes 
That  lit  her  morning  —  all  at  once  our  ears 
Were  startled  by  quick  steps  upon  the  walk  ; 
She  trembled  —  I  confess  I  trembled  too, 
Touched  by  a  strange  foreboding  —  neither  spake  — 
But  a  quick  flush  ran  over  her  pale  face, 
Then  vanished  —  like  those  summer-lightning  heats 
That  lift  along  the  horizon's  evening  edge, 
And  glow  an  instant  but  to  leave  more  weird 
The  after  darkness.     In  a  moment  more 
The  door  swung  open,  and  the  well-known  form 
Of  Marion  stood  before  us  :  —  with  a  shriek 
She  started,  staggered  forward,  while  a  look 
That  haunts  me  still  of  wild  and  deep  despair 
Convulsed  her  face,  —  and  flinging  up  her  arms, 
Muttered,     "I    knew    it! — Ah!    too    late,"    and 
swooned. 

We  bathed  her  temples,  bore  her  to  a  couch, 
And  long  we  hung  above  her,  ere  the  life 


AUXT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

Came    back    to    her    white     cheeks.      Alas  !    that 

hour 

Of  agony,  which  followed  when  her  sense 
Again  returned  —  what  explanations  wild  — 
What    bursts    of    tears,    that   smothered   the   thick 

voice,  — 

With  silences  more  dreadful,  like  those  deep 
And  dread  crevasses  leading  down  to  death 
Smoothed    over    by  the   treacherous   snow.      What 

fierce 

Self  accusations  and  complaints  of  Fate 
These  two  hearts  uttered  !     But  at  last  a  calm 
Came  over  them,  a  calm  like  that  which  comes 
After  the  foundering  of  a  glorious  hope, 
When  all  alone  in  the  great  sea  of  Time 
We  find  ourselves  upon  a  drifting  raft. 

You  know  his  story  ;    tempest,  war,  and  chance 
Conspired  to  mar  his  plans  ;  —  a  shipwreck  first, 
Then  cruel  waiting  for  another  ship, 
And  long  imprisonment  on  hostile  shores,— 
These  kept  him  back  and  ruined  all  his  life. 


AUNT  KACHEL'S  STORY.  217 


Death  had  been  almost  better  than  return, 
Her  mind  was  braced  to  that  —  but  every  hour 
To  own  the  terrible  presence  of  a  thought, 
Half  of  remorse  and  half  of  vain  regret, 
That  would  intrude,  a  ghost  at  every  feast, 
This  was  more  hard  to  bear  for  him  and  her. 
So,  when  he  died,  a  weight  from  off  her  heart 
Seemed  lifted,  and  she  grew  more  still  and  calm. 

And   now,  long  years  —  long,  serious,  thoughtful 

years 
Have  strewn  with  their    dead   leaves   her   life    and 

ours, 

And  life  has  lost  those  early  passionate  joys, 
That  sang  and  fluttered  in  Spring's  blossomy  boughs 
Like  these  gold  orioles  that  among  the  elms 
Quiver  like  living  fruit.  —  Well,  age  has  brought 
Perhaps  its  compensation.     Youth's  gay  days 
Hung  round  the  walls  of  memory  have  gained 
The  tone  of  rare  old  pictures  and  a  fine 
Ideal  hue,  that  time  alone  can  give. 


218  AUNT  RACHEL'S  STORY. 

But  the  gate  creaks  —  our  friend  is  coming  back. 
Say,  would  you  think,  to  see  that  serious  face, 
With  its   quaint   smiles  — to  hear   that   sharp,  high 

tone 

Half-jesting,  half  sarcastic,  she  had  known 
Such  strange  romance  as  this  when  she  was  young  ? 


AT    DIEPPE. 

THE  shivering  column  of  the  moonlight  lies 

Upon  the  crumbling  sea ; 

Down  the  lone  shore  the  flying  curlew  cries 

Half  humanly. 

With  hoarse,  dull  wash  the  backward  dragging  surge 

Its  raucid  pebbles  rakes, 
Or  swelling  dark  runs  down  with  toppling  verge, 

And  flashing  breaks. 

The  light-house  flares  and  darkens  from  the  cliff, 

And  stares  with  lurid  eye 
Fiercely  along  the  sea  and  shore  as  if 

Some  foe  to  spy. 


220  AT   DIEPPE. 

What  knowing  thought,  oh,  ever  moaning  sea, 

Haunts  thy  perturbed  breast  — 
What  dark  crime  weighs  upon  thy  memory 

And  spoils  thy  rest  ? 

Thy  soft  swell  lifts  and  swings  the  new-launched  yacht 

With  polished  spars  and  deck, 
But  crawls  and  grovels  where  the  bare  ribs  rot 

Of  the  old  wreck. 


Oh,  treacherous  courtier!    thy  deceitful  lie 

To  youth  is  gayly  told, 
But  in  remorse  I  see  thee  cringingly 

Crouch  to  tlio  old. 


F  AIRY-L  AND. 

(FOR  E.  M.  s.) 

WHEN  first  into  Fairy-land  I  went 

I  was  so  happy  and  so  content, 

For  a  little  Fairy  carried  me  there 

Who  had  large  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 

'Twas  a  beautiful  wood,  with  great  high  trees 
That    scattered   gold    leaves    as  they    shook  in   the 

breeze, 

Where  the  Oriole  flashed,  and  the  blue  Jay  screamed, 
And  the   trees    and   the   skies   in   the    smooth  lake 

dreamed. 

And  there  we  wandered  about,  and  played 
On  the  crisping  leaves  in  the  sun  and  shade  ; 
And  she  carried  me  where  the  gleaming  brooks 
Braided  their  brown  hair  over  the  rocks. 


222  FAIRY-LAND. 

And  she  told  me  where  SAveet  nuts  were  found, 
In  the  house  of  the  squirrel  under  ground  ; 
And  she  showed  me  a  great  flat  mossy  stone 
That  we  ranged  our  acorn-clips  upon. 

There  wre  played  party  down  in  the  glen, 

And  made  believe  ladies  and  gentlemen  ; 

And  put  on  their  airs,  and  talked  of  the  weather  - 

Oh !   we  were  both  so  happy  together. 

Our  cream  and  our  sugar  were  only  pretend, 

But    we    found     wild     strawberries     there    without 

end, 

And  these  on  a  great  leaf-dish  we  set, 
With  an  arum  for  pitcher,  all  dewy  wet. 

We  had  at  our  tea-parties  many  a  friend, 

But  they,  like  the  sugar  and  cream,  were  '  pretend,' 

So  we  made  believe  help  them,  and  pour  out  their 

cup, 
And  their  berries  and  cake  we  ourselves  eat  up. 


FAIRY-LAXD. 


223 


And  there  a  garden  we  dug  with  a  stick, 
And  planted  with  flower-seeds  ever  so  thick, 
Arid  stuck  all  the  wild  flowers  we  found,  in  it  too, 
Arid  dug  them  up  daily  to  see  how  they  grew. 

Sometimes  both  our  children  we  hushed  into  bed, 
And   wove    wreaths    of  woodbine    to   wear   on   our 

head, 

And  barberries  for  ear-rings  we  tied  on  with  strings 
And  went  to  make  visits  to  queens  and  to  kings. 

Oh  !  'twas  so  pleasant  there  in  the  wood, 
How  glad  I  should  be  to  go  back,  if  I  could - 
But  the  fairy  returns  not  that  carried  me  there, 
And   the    place  without   her   would   be    dreary  and 
bare. 


THE    VIOLET. 


OH  !    faint  delicious  spring-time  violet, 

Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Turns  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards  to  let 

A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 


The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 

Blows  through  that  open  door, 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells  more  sweet  and  low, 

And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar  from  that  beloved  place, 

And  that  beloved  hour, 
When  Life  hung  ripening  in  Love's  golden  grace, 

Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 


THE   VIOLET.  225 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy  grass, 

The  lark  sings  o'er  my  head 
Drowned  in  the  sky — Oh  pass,  ye  visions,  pass! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !  — 


Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden  door 

From  which  I  ever  flee  ? 
Oh,  vanished  Joy  !    Oh  Love,  that  art  no  more. 

Let  my  vexed  spirit  be  ! 

Oh  violet !    thy  odor  through  my  brain 
Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curse  did  stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 


15 


THE    TORRENT. 

IN  wild  exuberant  joy  from  thy  mountain  home 

Thou  earnest  in  early  spring, 
Impetuous,  breaking  along  in  foam 

And  gladdening  every  tiling. 

What  fulness  of  life !   what  scorn  of  obstacles ! 

What  pride  that  young  heart  filled ! 
The  maiden-hair  trembled,  and  all  the  purple  bells 

With  joy  and  fear  were  thrilled. 

Over  the  drudging,  laboring  wheel  with  a  shout 
Thou  wentest,  with  streaming  hair, 

Thy  bounty  of  diamonds  scattering  all  about 
On  the  aspens  flickering  there. 


THE   TORRENT.  227 

The  maiden  smiled  as  she  saw  thy  sunny  flow, 
And  the  youth  smiled  back  in  pride, 

But  the  miller  gazed  at  both  with  an  anxious  brow 
As  he  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 


I  saw  thee  later  —  all  shrunken  to  a  thread, 

When  summer's  joy  was  flown, 
Stealing  slowly  along  thy  wasted  bed, 

Fretting  at  every  stone. 

The  leaves  of  the  maiden-hair  were  crisp  and  dry, 

The  purple  bells  were  gone  — 
Lonely  the  maiden  wept  for  the  days  gone  by, 

And  her  cheek  was  shrunk  and  wan. 


The  broken  mill-wheel  went  no  longer  round  — 

The  miller's  grave  was  there ; 
Only  a  bird  was  singing,  whose  glad,  sweet  sound 

Brought  to  the  heart  despair. 


TO    J.  S. 

"Better  is  the  sight  of  the  eye   than  the  wandering  of  the 
desire."  —  6  ECCLESIASTES,  ix. 

I  YIELD  thee  unto  higher  spheres, 
I  bend  my  head  and  say,  "  Thy  will 

Not  mine  be  done,"  though  bitter  tears 
The  while  my  eyelids  fill. 

I  know  thou  hast  escaped  the  blight 
That  wilts  us  here,  and  entered  now 

To  perfect  day  —  though  in  the  night 
Bereft  of  thee  we  bow. 


And  yet  thy  little  sunny  life 
Was  beautiful  as  it  was  brief; 

It  was  not  vexed  by  pain  or  strife, 
It  knew  but  little  grief. 


TO  j.  s.  229 

The  sunshine  from  our  house  is  gone, 
And  from  our  hearts  their  peace  and  joy ; 

We  feel  so  terribly  alone 
Without  thee  —  dearest  boy ! 

Thou  mad'st  us  feel  how  very  fair 

God's  earth  could  be,  and  taught  us  love ; 

And  in  life's  tapestry  of  care 
A  golden  figure  wove. 

Brave  as  we  will  our  hearts  to  bear, 
Grief  will  not  wholly  be  denied; 

The  ineffectual  dykes  we  rear 
Go  down  before  its  tide. 

We  He  all  prostrate  —  cannot  feel 
God's  love  —  we  only  cry  aloud, 

"  Oh,  God !    oh,  God !  "   for  all  things  reel, 
And  God  hides  in  a  cloud. 


230 


TO  J.   S. 


We  blindly  wail,  for  we  are  maimed 

Beyond  repair,  until  at  last 
He  lifts  us  up  — all  bleeding,  lamed, 

And  shattered  by  the  blast. 

He  asks,  "  And  would  you  wish  him  back, 
Whom  I  have  taken  to  my  joy, 

Drag  downward  to  Life's  narrow  track 
Your  little  spirit  boy  ?  " 

"No!  no!"    the  spirit  makes  reply 

"  JSTot  back  to  earthly  chance  and  pain ; ': 

"  Yet  ah  !  "    the  shattered  senses  cry, 
"  Would  he  were  here  again." 

He  was  so  meshed  within  our  love 
That  all  our  heart  strings  bleeding  lie, 

And  all  fond  hopes  we  round  him  wove 
Are  now  but  agony. 


TO  j.  s.  231 

Yet  let  us  suffer  —  he  is  freed, 

And  on  our  tears  a  bridge  of  light 

Is  built  by  God,  his  steps  to  lead 
To  joys  beyond  our  sight. 

EOME,  Dec.  1853. 


COUPLETS. 


I. 


To  each   his    separate   work ;    the   ox   to   drag   the 

plough, 
The  bird  to  sing  his  song  upon  the  blossom y  bough. 

I  do  not  ask  the  grain  and  hay  your  acres  yield, 
If  I  may   pluck   the    flower   you   trample   in  your 
field. 

How  perfect  nature  is  !  the  sun,  and  cloud,  and  rain 
Give  me  a  little  song,  and  ripen  all  your  grain. 


II. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Our  nearness  value  lends  to  trivial  things  and  slight, 
But  only  distance  gives  to  lofty  ones  their  height. 


COUPLETS.  233 

The    Pyramids   to    those    beneath    them    look    not 

high, 
But  as  we  go  from  them  they  tower  into  the  sky. 

So  thy  colossal  mind,  in  time's  perspective  seen, 
Still  rises  up  and  up  with  more  majestic  mien. 

in. 

Strive  not  to  say  the  whole  !    the  Poet,  in  his  Art, 
Must  intimate  the  whole,  and  say  the  smallest  part. 

The  young  moon's  silver  arc  her  perfect  circle  tells, 
The  limitless  within  Art's  bounded  outline  dwells. 

Of  every  noble  work  the  silent  part  is  best, 

Of  all  expression,  that  which  cannot  be  expressed. 

Each  act  contains   the  Life,  each   work  of  Art  the 

world, 
And    all    the    planet   laws    are    in   each   dew-drop 

pearled. 


234  COUPLETS. 

Of  single  stones  is  built  the  temple's  Grecian  state, 
Yet  should  the  poet  not  its  stones  enumerate. 

The  lizard  gliding  o'er  the  Pyramid's  huge  cone, 
Knows  not  the  Pyramids,  but  only  every  stone. 

Subservient  to  the  form  all  details  must  be  brought, 
All  images  be  slaves  to  one  despotic  thought. 

IV. 

We    of  our    age    are    part,    and   every   thrill    that 

wakes 
The  tremulous  air  of  Life,  its  motion  in  us  makes. 

The  imitative  mass  mere  empty  echo  give, 
As   walls    and    rocks    return    the    sound   that  they 
receive. 

But  as  the  bell  that  high  in  some  cathedral  swings, 
Stirred    by    whatever    thrill    with    its    own    music 
rings, 


COUPLETS.  "  235 

So  finer  souls  give  forth  to  each  vibrating  tone 
Impinging  on  their  life  —  a  music  of  their  own. 

v. 

All  Arts  are  one,  howe'er  distributed  they  stand, 
Verse,  tone,  shape,  color,  form,  are  fingers  on  one 
hand. 

VI. 

Lift  thou  thyself  above  the  accidents  of  life, 
With  pain  and  joy  alike  be  friends,  abjuring  strife. 

If  in   thy    growing    fields    the    tempest    beat    thy 

grain, 
See  !    it  hath  blown   disease   from  off  the   stagnant 

plain. 

If  Friendship  seize  the  sword,  bare  thou  thy  breast 

and  wait, 
Love  conquers  Love,  but  Hate  hath  never  conquered 

Hate. 


236  COUPLETS. 

Patient    the  wounded    earth   receives   the   plough's 

sharp  share, 
And   hastes    the   sweet  return   of  golden   grain   to 

bear. 

The  sea  remembers  not  the  vessel's  rending  keel, 
But  rushes  joyously  the  ravage  to  conceal. 

So,  patient  under  scorn  and  injury  abide,  — 
Who    conquereth    all    within    may   dare    the    world 

outside. 

VII. 
Why  fear    the    critic's    pen ;   if   dipped    in    gall  it 

be 
It  but  corrodes  itself,  it  cannot  injure  thee. 

Sound    speech,    howe'er     severe,    deem     thou    the 

surgeon's  knife 
That    cuts   the    cancer   out  and  thereby   saves   the 

life. 


COUPLETS.  237 

Yet,  let   the   surgeon  heed,  the   flesh  he   takes  oft 

lies 
So  near  the  patient's  heart,  that   taken   thence,  he 

dies. 

VIII. 

The  old  because  'tis  old  the  fool  will  reverence  — 
The  new  because  'tis  new,  to  him  is  void  of  sense. 

Leave    him   with  feeble    bow  his    pointless  jeer   to 

shoot ; 
The    wise    would     understand     before    they   would 

refute. 

When  sliding  down   its    rails    the    engine   thunders, 

mark  ! 
From  every  farm-house  runs  some  foolish  cur  to  bark. 

IX. 

Yes,  thrift  is  very  good.     Respect  to  men  of  thrift ! 
They   stick    to    solid    facts,  and    let   the    dreamer 
drift. 


238  COUPLETS. 

The  earth  their  mother  is,  their  heart  unto  her  clings, 
And  since  they  live  with  her  why  should  they  covet 


wings  ? 


They  find  in  common  life  a  present  task  to  do, 
The  distant  and  the  dim  let  idle  poets  woo. 

Yet  out  of  earth  alone  was  no  man  ever  made  ? 
The  imagination  gives  the  very  soul  to  Trade. 

The    merchant    schemes    and    dreams,  with    magic 

numbers  plays, 
On  speculation's  wings  he  threads  through  fortune's 

maze. 

Across  the  pathless  deep  his  ships  like  shuttles  fly, 
And  weave  together  lands  by  needs  and  luxury. 

With  astrologic  faith  he  on  the  stars  relies, 
And  ventures  all  his  wealth   to   shifting  winds  and 
skies. 


COUPLETS.  239 

He  trusts  a  needle's  point,  a  few  weak  planks  and 

chart, 
To  bring  an  Eastern  spice  into  a  Western  mart. 

What   Faith    in    things   unseen !    Hath    any   poet's 

dreams 
More  fancy  than   your   plain,  and  sober  merchant's 

schemes  ? 

x. 

Live  not  without   a  friend !     The  Alpine  rock  must 

own 
Its  mossy  grace  or  else  be  nothing  but  a  stone. 

Live  not  without  a  God  !   however  low  or  high, 
In  every  house  should  be  a  window  to  the  sky. 

XI. 

Herein    the    spirit's    gifts   are    not    like   those    of 

clay  — 
The  spirit  does  not  lose  by  what  it  gives  away. 


240  COUPLETS. 

So  at  the  candle's  flame  if  we  another  light, 
The  first  hath  nothing  lost  of  beautiful  or  bright. 

The  lamp  of  human  love  like  to  the  candle   burns, 
Its  life  is  but  to  give,  it  seeketh  no  returns. 

XII. 

As  rooted  to  the  rock  the  yearning  sea-weed  grows 
And  sways  unto  the  tide,  and  feels  its  ebbs  and  flows ; 

So  unto  Reason  fixed,  yet  floating  ever  free 

In  Feeling's  ebb  and  flow  the  Artist's  life  should  be. 

XIII. 

How  use  and  custom  steal  from  fairest  things  their 

grace, 
And  how  privation  makes  us  feel  the  vacant  place. 

The  open  sky  I  breathed  seemed  not  so  sweet  and 

pure 
Till  I  was  doomed  this  damp,  foul  dungeon  to  endure. 


COUPLETS.  241 

I  never  knew,  dear  friend,  your  love's  necessity, 
But   by  Death's  chasm   left  where   once  you   used 
to  be. 

XIV. 

While  we    are    young    our  youth   too   near  for  Art 

doth  lie  — 
Our  life  a  poem  is,  but  for  another's  eye. 

Youth  by  projection  knows  how  glorious  manhood  is, 
And     manhood    feels     youth's     charm     by    golden 
memories. 

Not  in    the    present   we   the    present    charm    can 

feel, 
But    Memory   and   Hope   have   Beauty's   wondrous 

seal. 

Time    smelts   the   dross   away   and    leaves   the   ore 

alone, 
And  in  a  magic  ring  it  sets  life's  opal  stone. 

16 


242  COUPLETS. 

xv.  t 

In  every  leaf  is  seen  the  structure  of  the  tree  — 
In  every  drop,  the  earth  —  in  man,  society. 

Nought  universal  ere  was  spoken,  thought,  or  done, 
That  was  not  owed  unto  the  private  truth  of  one. 

All  nature  is  akin  —  all  parts  of  one  vast  mind, 
And  universals  we  in  individuals  find. 

XVI. 

The  scholar  like  a  ship  is  filled  with  foreign  store, 
Yet  oft  his  life  and  thought  are  barnacled  with  lore. 

Sometimes    rich    fruit    and    wine    he    brings    from 

lands  unknown  — 
And  sometimes  he  returns  all  ballasted  with  stone. 

Nought  in  his  mind  or  heart   should  dead   and  for 
eign  dwell  — 
But  change  into  himself  like  pearls  within  their  shell. 


COUPLETS.  243 

Let  him  assimilate  his  knowledge  as  his  food, 
This,  unto  feeling,   thought ;    as  that,  to   flesh   and 
blood. 

XVII. 

What  strange  and  magic  power  in  sympathy  resides  ? 
It  doubles  all  our  joys,  our  sorrows  it  divides. 

How  sweet,  dear   friend,  to   feel   that   I   with  thee 

may  share 
Whatever   life   may  bring  of  thought,  or  hope,  or 

care. 

Yet  in  his  inmost  self  must  each  one  stand  alone, 
Be,  think,  decide,  act,  die,  —  a  single  separate  one. 

XVIII. 

Pain  of  the  devil  is,  with  God  is  joy  alone, 

And  love's  delicious  fruit  hath  not  sin's  bitter  stone. 

Joy   is   life's   natural  flow,  when   feelings   meet    no 

shock, 
And  Sin  the  eddying  whirl  around  some  hidden  rock. 


244  COUPLETS. 

When  in  the    glow  of  love,  the   loved   one    at   thy 

side, 
How  broad  thy  being  is  —  thy  sympathy  how  wide. 

Thy  love    illumes  the   world ;     the    beggar   in  thy 

way 
Gets  silver  now  who  got  but  curses  yesterday. 

XIX. 

That  dress  of  thine  is  made  of  many  lives  ;   I  see 
Upon  thy  coral  there  the  diver's  misery. 

Thy  shawl    is   red  with   blood,  for   that   the   camel 

bled  ; 
The  seamstress  sewed  her  pain  into  thy  lace's  thread. 

The  tortured  worm   gave   up   his    tomb   thy  silk  to 

make, 
The  oyster  bore  his  pearl-  of  trouble  for  thy  sake. 

The  frolic  kid  was  flayed  thy  snowy  hands  to  hide, 
A  thousand  cochineals  to  paint  thy  ribbon  died. 


COUPLETS.  245 

Thou  wouldst  not    crush   a  worm,  so  gentle  is  thy 

heart, 
And  yet,  behold  !  how  strange  a  paradox  thou  art. 

xx. 

The  conscious  Intellect  the  servant  is  of  Art, 
The    unconscious    Phantasy    performs    the    master's 
part. 

Despite  the  helm  and  sail  the  vessel  will  not  go 
Howe'er  we  strive,  until  the  breath  of  heaven  shall 
blow. 

Love  is  the  only  key  of  knowledge  as  of  Art, 
Nothing     is    truly    ours    but    what    we    learn    by 
heart. 

XXI. 

Like    to   the   human   frame,  or   like   the   spreading 

tree, 
So  History  grows  and  has  its  live  anatomy. 


246  COUPLETS. 

From  age  to  age  it  grows,  here  lopped,  and  stunted 

there, 
And  strives  its  perfect  form  of  Liberty  to  wear. 

Ah !    what    a    wondrous    voice    of    sorrow    from    it 

grieves, 
As  in  the  air  of  Time  it  shakes  its  myriad  leaves. 

There  sits  the  carrion  crow  of  Hate,  and  croaks  for 

Death, 
While    Love's    white    dove    lies   torn   and  bleeding 

underneath. 

Shall  that  day  never  come  when  all  its  limbs  shall 

shoot 
In    peaceful    freedom    forth    to    blossom,   leaf  and 

fruit. 

When  lifting  perfect  up  its  form  unto  the  skies, 
The    winds    amid    its    boughs    shall    weave     their 
melodies. 


COUPLETS. 


247 


XXII. 

I  look  into  thine  eyes,  myself,  dear  love,  to  see, 
For  all  I  am,  and  hope,  is  given  unto  thee. 

XXIII. 

Seek  not  to  pour  the  world  into  thy  little  mould, 
Each  as  its  nature  is,  its  being  must  unfold. 

Enjoy  the  good,  nor  seek  too  much  to  criticize, 
Within  the  slag  of  vice  the  gold  of  virtue  lies. 

Vice  is  not  wholly  vice,  but  virtue  in  the  growth, 
And  falsehood  but  the  germ  of  undeveloped  truth. 

Thy  virtue  is  thine  own  ;   in  others  it  may  be 
The  meanest  vice  that  man  can  have  —  Hypocrisy. 

Thou  art  but  as  a  string  in  life's  vast  sounding- 
board, 

And  other  strings  as  sweet  will  not  with  thine 
accord. 


248 


COUPLETS. 


XXIV. 

An  inward  faith  alone  can  make  our  life  sincere, 
And  into  Art  that  life  transmuted  should  appear. 

Not    of    a   trick    or    lie    those    fairest    shapes    are 
born, 

That  seem  like  human  souls  that  godlike  forms  have 
worn. 

The    Greek    in    nature    saw   his    gods    half-hidden 

lurk, 
And    copying   nature,    wrought   his    gods    into    his 

work. 

xxv. 
Nature    in    circles  moves   round   fixed   and   central 

laws, 
The  spirit's  spiral  path  a  moving  centre  draws. 

The    seed   results   the    tree,    the    tree    results  the 

seed, 
Its  ultimated  fruit  but  to  its  root  doth  lead. 


COUPLETS.  249 

But  thought  strives  ever  up,  beyond  itself  aspires, 
New   forms    and    higher   powers    are    born    of  its 
desires. 

Rest  absolute  is  death ;    rest  relative  alone 

To  Nature  must  belong;  the  soul  must  on  and  on. 

What   askest    thou   of  Death,  but   that  the  senses' 

door 
It  shall  unlock  and  let  the  spirit  upward  soar  ? 

Soar  on  and  up,  its  God  projecting  as  it  goes, 
Expanding    into    love,  and   joy,   and    peace  —  but 
not  repose. 

In  utter  rest  the  soul  could  never  fitly  dwell, 
Debarred  from  upward  growth  —  e'en  Paradise  were 
hell. 

XXVI. 

While  work  is  only  task  we  are  apprentices  ; 

The  master  does  his  work  with  joyfumess  and  ease. 


250  COUPLETS. 

His  labor  is  his  joy,  and  not  the  prize  it  brings, 
And  Nature,   while    he  works,   to   him  her   secret 

sings. 

XXVII. 

Joy  is  the  tone  that  sounds  through  nature's  myriad 

vents, 
But  Hate  is  man's  alone,  and  man  alone  repents. 

Yet  life  hath  nobler  shapes  than  sorrows  to  beget, 
God  gives  us  time  to  live,  act,  love,  but  not  regret. 

For   blighted    fruit   once    borne  the   fruitrtree   does 

not  care, 
Nor  gratulate  itself  on  what  was  sound  and  fair. 

So  let  us  joyous  live  —  to-day  to  be  and  do, 
Nor    care    if    good    or   bad   once  on  our  branches 
grew. 

There  is  no  ruined  life  beyond  the  smile  of  heaven, 
And  compensating  grace  for  every  loss  is  given. 


COUPLETS.  251 

The  Coliseum's  shell  is  loved  of  flower  and  vine, 
And  through  its  shattered  rents  the  peaceful  planets 
shine. 

XXVIII. 

Nature  allows  not  man  his  brother  to  exclude, 
She  spreads  her  feast   alike  for  fool,  wise,  bad  and 
good. 

Each  what  he  can  may  take,  so  much  and  nothing 

more  — 
Yet  nothing  that  each  takes  diminishes  her  store. 

Thy  walls  and   gates   may  shut   my  feet  from   thy 

estate, 
Yet  Fancy  where  she  will  treads  scorning  wall  and 

gate. 

The    acres   of    dead    loam  —  the   wood   within   the 

trees, 
Thou  cravest  these  alone,  so  hast  thou  only  these. 


252  COUPLETS. 

The  poet  poor,  despised,  who  loiters  dreaming  by, 
Transmutes     this     dross     to     gold    with    wondrous 
alchemy. 

He   owns   the   landscape    there  —  the   fine  ethereal 

part; 
For   him   the  bird   sings   while   he   listens  with   his 

heart. 

For  him  the  sunset  paints  —  for  him  the  free  winds 

blow  ; 
He  takes  the  spirit  there  and  lets  the  dead  corpse  go. 

Thy  wealth  sticks   to   the    earth,  a  load  thou  canst 

not  raise  — 
His,  light  as  thought  and  safe  from  death,  he  bears 

always. 

XXIX. 

We  are  but  what  we  think,  and  must  immortal  be, 
Else  whence  hath  come  the  thought  of  immortality  ? 


COUPLETS.  253 

The  limits  of  its  sphere  can  nothing  ere  transcend, 
And  thought  roam  where  it  will   can  never  find  its 
end. 

Around    the   soul   one    thought   of    nebulous   glory 

clings, 
As  Saturn  is  ensphered  within  its  luminous  rings. 

This    pours    upon    our    life   its   pure   and   lambent 

light, 
And  brings  its  fullest  joy  when  sorrow  brings  the 

night. 

XXX. 

The  East  for  sweet  luxurious  ease  and  rest  — 
For  toil,  and  pain,  and  struggle  is  the  West. 

The  calm  siesta,  pipe,  and  soft  divan 
With  mild  sensations,  are  for  Eastern  man. 

The  fierce  debate,  the  strife  for  place  and  power, 
The  brain  and  nerve  life  is  our  Western  dower. 


254  COUPLETS. 

With  all  our  rush  and  toil  we  scarcely  move, 
And  lose  the  truest  joy  of  living  —  love  ! 

XXXI. 

Nature  will  ne'er  repeat ;  whatever  she  creates 
An  individual  is ;   she  never  imitates. 

Each    life    she    separate    makes,  whate'er   its  class 

may  be, 
And  men  are  tones  whose  chord  we  call  society. 

What    thou   hast  done  is  fair  —  perchance  for  thee 

the  best ; 
But  yet  there  is  for  me  a  different  behest. 

We  drill  all  thoughts  and  acts  to  Fashion's  monotone, 
But  various  Nature  still  abhors  a  unison. 


With    her    wide-ranging   hand    she    modulates    the 

keys, 
From  seeming  discord  builds  progressive  harmonies. 


COUPLETS. 


255 


If  we  refuse  the  tone,  that  God  to  each  has  given, 
The    symphony    is    marred    that    earth    plays    unto 
heaven. 

XXXII. 

Where  thou  art  strong  and  stout  thy  friend  to  thee 

will  show  — 
Where  thou  art  weak  alone  is  taught  thee  by  thy  foe. 

Therefore  despise  him  not ;  but  'neath  his  battle- 
axe 

See  if  thy  armor  ring  whole,  sound,  or  'neath  it 
cracks. 

Though   friend    with   flattery    soothe,    or    foe    stab 

through  and  through, 
Praise    cannot   save    the   False,  nor  malice  kill  the 

True. 

XXXIII. 

The   Imperfect  hath   a   charm   the   Perfect   cannot 

own ; 
From  satisfaction  Hope  ungirds  her  flashing  zone. 


256  COUPLETS. 

No  Perfect  nature  shapes  —  she  only  hints  in  each 
And  tantalizes  with  her  partly  finished  speech. 

XXXIV. 

The  torch  you  turn  to  earth    still    upward    lifts  its 

flame, 
And  so  the   soul   looks   up  though   turned  to  earth 

in  shame. 


AT    THE     VILLA     CONTI. 

WHAT  peace  and  quiet  in  this  villa  sleep ! 
Here  let  us  pause,  nor  chase  for  pleasure  on, 
Nothing  can  be  more  exquisite  than  this  — 
Work,  for  the  nonce  farewell  —  this  day  we  '11  give 
To  fallow  joys  of  perfect  idleness. 

See  how  the  old  house  lifts  its  face  of  light 
Against  the  pallid  olives  that  behind 
Throng  up  the  hill.  —  Look  doAvn  this  vista's  shade 
Of  dark  square  shaven  ilexes,  where  spirts 
The  fountain's  thin  white  thread,  and  blows  away. 
And  mark !    along  the  terraced  balustrade 
Two  contadine  stopping  in  the  shade, 
With  copper  vases  poised  upon  their  heads, 
How  their  red  jackets  tell  against  the  green  ! 
17 


258  AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI. 

Old,  all  is  old  —  what  charm  there  is  in  age  ! 
Do  you  believe  this  villa  when  'twas  new 
Was  half  so  beautiful  as  now  it  seems  ? 
Look  at  these  balustrades  of  travertine, 
Had    they    the    charm    when    fresh     and    sharply 

carved 
As   now   that   they   are    stained    and    grayed   with 

time 

And  mossed  with  lichens,  every  grim  old  mask 
That  grins  upon  their  pillars  bearded  o'er 
With  waving  sprays  of  slender  maiden-hair  ? 
Ah  no  !    I  cannot  think  it.  —  Things  of  art 
Snatch  nature's  graces  from  the  hand  of  Time. 
Here  will  we  sit  and  let  the  sleeping  noon 
Doze  on  and  dream  into  the  afternoon, 
While  all  the  mountains  shake  in  opal  light, 
Forever  shifting,  till  the  sun's  last  glance 
Transfigures  with  its  splendor  all  our  world. 

Hark !    the  cicala  crackles  mid  the  trees, 
How  shrilly  !    and  the  toppling  fountain  spills 


AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI.  259 

The  music  of  its  silvery  rain,  how  soft ! 

Into  the  broad  clear  basin  —  zigzag  darts 

The  sudden  dragon-fly  across,  or  hangs 

Poised  in  the  sun  with  shimmer  of  glazed  wings. 

And  there  the  exquisite  campagna  lies    . 
Dreaming  what  dreams  of  olden  pomp  and  war, 
Of  Love,  and  Pain,  and  Joy  that  it  has  known! 
Sadder,  perhaps^  but  dearer  than  of  yore, 
With  wild-flowers  overstrewn,  like  some  loved  grave  ; 
Its  silent  stretches  haunted  by  vast  trains 
Of  ghostly  shapes,  where  stalks  majestical 
Mid  visionary  pomp  of  vanished  days, 
The  buried  grandeur  of  imperial  Rome  ; 
Moaned  over  by  great  winds  that  from  the  sea 
Sweep  inland,  and  by  wandering  clouds  of  tears ; 
How  it  lies  throbbing  there  beneath  the  sun, 
So  silent  with  its  ruins  on  its  breast ! 
There,  far  Soracte  on  the  horizon  piles 
Its  lonely  peak  —  and  gazes  on  the  sea  ; 
There  Leonessa  couches  in  repose, 


260  AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI. 

And  stern  Gennaro  rears  its  purple  ridge, 
And  wears  its  ermine  late  into  the  spring. 
When  all  beneath  is  one  vast  lush  of  flowers, 
And  poppies  paint  whole  acres  with  one  sweep 
Of  their  rich  scaslet,  and  entangling  vines 
Shroud    the    low    walls,    and    drop    from    arch    to 

arch 

Of  the  far-running  lessening  aqueducts 
On  his  broad  shoulders  still  the  imperial  robe 
Of  winter  hangs  —  and  leashed  within  his  caves 
The  violent  Tramontana  lies  in  wait. 

Dear,    dear   old    Rome  —  well  !     nothing  is   like 

Rome ; 

Others  may  please  me,  her  alone  I  love. 
She  is  no  place  as  other  cities  are  — 
But  like  a  mother  and  a  mistress  too, 
The  soul  of  places,  unto  whom  I  give 
How  gladly  ah1  my  heart,  and  wish  it  more, 
That  I  might  give  more.     After  life  with  her, 
With  her  sweet  counsel,  tender  grace,  large  thought, 


AT   THE    VILLA    CONTI.  261 

And  great  calm  beauty,  all  seems  trivial. 
Ask  me  not  why  I  love,  nor  count  her  faults, 
Who  ever  gave  a  reason  for  his  love  ? 

Let  not  this  day  go  by  unconsciously ; 
No  !   let  us  taste  it  —  taste  it  as  it  goes, 
Not  gulp  it  at  one  draught  like  common  wine, 
But  taste  each  drop,  and  say,    "  how  exquisite !  " 
Stay,  stay  with  us,  oh!    dear  and  lovely  day, 
Would  we  could  hold  you  back  forever  here. 

What  long  sweet  respiration  of  delight 
In  these  old  places,  and  in  this  old  world  ; 
How  dear  this  villa,  with  its  crumbling  pride, 
Its  time-wryed  balustrades,  its  shadowy  walks 
Through  the  thick  ilexes  —  its  fountain  stairs 
Down  which  the  sheeted  water  leaps  alive 
To  heap  the  basin  where  the  gold-fish  hang. 
Not  half  so  dear  to  generations  gone, 
To  those  who  planned  the  gardens  and  enslaved 
The  free  stream  of  the  mountain  here  to  pour 


262  AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI. 

When  loosened  from  its  prison  into  light, 

Its  mounting  splendor  and  its  cool  sweet  song 

As  unto  us,  who  after  Time  hath  laid 

Its  hand  on  all  and  given  it  a  grace 

No  newness  ever  owned  —  here  lie  and  muse. 

Here  walked  the  Falconieri  in  their  pride 
Centuries  ago  —  here  the  Colonna  came, 
Vittoria  with  them  —  Angelo  himself, 
Gazing  upon  her  as  she  gravely  moved 
And  sighing  for  her,  while  Fabrizio's  sword 
Clanged  on  the  gravel  —  here  the  D'Este  came, 
From  Tivoli  where  o'er  dark  cypresses 
Their  villa  looks  above  the  billowy  land 
Of  the  Campagna  ;  —  ah  !   how  sweet  their  names 
Sound,  rousing  pensive  echoes  in  the  heart. 
Here  woman  in  her  first  young  budding  grace 
To  manhood's  earliest  prime  of  passion  pledged 
The  faith  of  innocent  love,  the  while  their  hearts 
Ran  over  into  sweet  Italian  words  — 
Soft  dropping  vowels.     They  are  now  but  dust ; 


AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI.  263 

But  yet  their  imaged  life  re-lives  in  us 

A  charmed  existence.     Down  such  paths  as  these 

Stole  Romeo  to  his  Juliet,  when  the  moon 

Looked  at  her  quivering  image  in  the  cup 

Of  such  broad  fountain ;  —  by  such  balustrade 

Fair  Beatrice,  her  wit  scarce  sheathed  in  Love, 

Ran  like  a  lapwing  close  unto  the  ground  ;  — 

Under  the  shadow  of  such  deep  green  woods 

Francesca  read  upon  the  fated  day 

That  lives  in  Dante's  rhyme ;  —  Petrarca  walked 

Alone  and  thoughtful  through  such  silent  paths 

Embalming  Laura  in  his  amber  song  — 

Here  Tasso  roamed,  and  o'er  such  terraces 

That  happy  group  of  dark-eyed  women  sat, 

For  whom  Boccaccio  told  his  charming  tales.     • 

Oh !    sweet  romantic  memories,  ye  exhale 
Your  odorous  breath  amid  these  sylvan  shades 
To  intoxicate  the  senses.     Gentle  forms 
Ye  rise  like  visions  here  among  the  trees, 
In  fair  procession.     In  the  fountain's  dim 


264 


AT   THE   VILLA    CONTI. 


And  whispering  murmur  are  your  voices  hid. 
Ye  speak  of  Love  —  ye  summon  up  again 
Blind,  SAveet  sensations,  feelings  dreamy,  faint 
As  the  prophetic  light  round  the  young  moon ; 
Wild  hopes  that  overflow  Life's  parapets 
Kise  at  your  voice,  tempered  and  sobered  down, 
And  with  a  haze  of  sadness  —  sadness  full 
Of  tenderest  joy  and  not  to  be  exchanged 
For  all  those  wilder  raptures,  rise  again 
With  trains  of  memories,  forms  that  are  no  more 
And  smiles  of  light  that  pierce  Thought's  shadowy 
wood. 

Ah!    were    ye    here    with  whom    in  Childhood's 

•  days, 

Or  in  the  season  of  expanding  thought 
I    roamed    and    dreamed    and    shaped   a  thousand 

vague 

Delicious  fancies  —  were  ye  at  my  side  ! 
Yet  no!    in  vision  only  could  we  touch 
That  Future  which  is  Present  now  to  me 


AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI.  265 

Present  in  Time,  but  ah!    how  sadly  changed 
From  what  we  painted.     Not  the  ocean  drear, 
With  its  blind  waste  of  washing,  weltering  waves 
Yawns  now  between  us,  —  finer  line  than  thought 
Can  ever  trace,  jet  not  to  be  o'er-reached, 
And  vaster  than  the  widest  stretch  of  sea 
Is  drawn  between  your  life  beyond  and  ours. 

Are  these  dreams  nothing  ?   are  these  idle  hours 
Loss  to  the  soul  ?     Believe  it  not,  dear  friend ! 
These  fallow  times  enrich  our  choicest  powers 
And    sweeten   strength  which    else  would    grow  too 

hard. 

We  will  not  take  the  joy  we  do  not  earn 
So  vain  are  we  —  and  yet  these  idle  joys 
That  nature  offers  we  can  never  win  — 
Out  of  her  grace  she  gives,  but  not  for  pay. 
The  charm  of  Beauty  slips  away  from  Work. 
So  let  us  live  to-day,  not  as  the  bee 
Bustling  and  busy  at  our  nervous  toil  — 
(Of  all  God's  creatures  most  I  hate  the  bee, 


AT   THE   VILLA    CONTI. 

Heartless  and  selfish,  and   intent  on  gain, 
Armed  with  a  sting  and  banging  rudely  round 
With  irritated  noise  among  the  flowers,) 
But  float  as  lazy  as  the  butterfly 
Whose  idle  wings  beauty  is  glad  to  paint, 
The  brother  of  the  rose  on  which  he  lights. 

To-morrow  for  the  pictures  we  shall  paint 

To-morrow  for  the  statue  we  shall  carve  — 
To-day  we  '11  dream  beneath  the  open  sky 
And  take  our  color,  as  the  flowers  take  theirs. 

Hark!    from  the  ilexes  the  nightingale 
Begins  its  beating  prelude,  like  the  throbs 
Of  some  quick  heart,  then  pauses,  then  again 
Bursts  into  fitful  jets  of  gurgling  song, 
Then  beats  again;   and  listen!   rising  now 
To  its  full  rapture  thrills  the  shadowy  wood 
With  the  delirious  passion  of  its  voice  ; 
With  dizzy  trills,  and  low,  deep,  tearful  notes, 
And  hurried  heaping  of  voluptuous  tones 
That  blent  together  in  one  intricate  maze 


AT   THE   VILLA   CONTI.  267 

Of  sweet  inextricable  melodies, 
Whirl  on  and  up,  and  circling  lift  and  lift, 
And  burst  at  last  in  scattered  showers  of  notes, 
And  leave  us  the  sweet,  silent  afternoon. 

ROME,  July  5,  '52. 


THE    BLACK-LETTER    TEXT. 

NOT  till  the  light  of  Joy  has  passed  away 
The  orb  of  Patience  rises  full  and  great 

To  rule  our  life  with  soft  and  shadowy  sway, 
And  sanctify  the  ruins  of   our  state. 

When  sorrow  calls  us,  from  the  feast  we  rise, 
Its  lights  are  glaring,  trivial  are  its  smiles, 

And  Thought  walks  on  'mid  buried  memories, 
Like  some   cowled   monk   along   the   tomb-strewn 
aisles. 

We  go  to  Silence  — In  its  cell  we  sit 
And  read  the  mournful  missal  of  man's  fate, 

The  sad  black-letter  text  in  which  is  writ 
E'en  the  illumined  chapter  of  the  great. 


THE   BLACK-LETTEK   TEXT.  269 

Girt  round  by  walls  we  never  can  o'erpeer, 

With  one  dark  gate,  where  all  our  pathways  end, 

Puzzled  we  stand,  in  hope,  but  yet  in  fear, 
Unknowing  where  the  ceaseless  passers  wend. 

"  Farewell !  "   they  say,  "  To  Love  and  Joy  we  go," 
We  have  not  faith,  or  we  should  smile  again, 

But  ah  !    we  beat  the  gate,  and  wild  with  woe 
We  struggle  like  a  madman  with  his  chain. 

Yet,  with  this  farthing  candle  of  our  Faith, 
Into  the  dark  dread  void  beyond  we  peer, 

There  each  beholds  upon  the  blank  of  death 
The  trembling  shadows  of  his  hope  or  fear. 


S  ONNET. 

IT  would  not  seem  to  me  one  half  so  strange 
To  see  the  door  with  one  burst  open  wide 
And  feel  you  once  more  bounding  to  my  side 
All  full  of  Life  and  Joy  —  as  seems  this  change, 
That  hath  upborne  you  from  the  senses'  range, 
And  left  a  blank  that  cannot  be  supplied, 
And  wreck  and  ruin  where  were  joy  and  pride, 
And  hope,  and  love's  perpetual  interchange. 
I  crave  to  see  you,  hear  you  once  again, 
And  nature  has  no  more  the  charm  to  cheer, 
The  sunshine  hurts  me  with  a  secret  pain 
I  never  knew  when  you  were  with  us  here. 
Dear  spirit!    we  are  wretched  and  alone, 
But  yet  I  pray  you  cannot  hear  our  moan. 

ALBAKO,  April  3,  1854. 


THE    AUTUMN     CYCLAMEN 

A  LITTLE  timid  thing  it  is, 

And  though  its  sisters  all  are  round 
It  trembles  at  the  slightest  breeze, 

And  ever  gazes  on  the  ground. 

It  does  not  dare  to  be  alone, 
And  almost  shudders  to  be  seen, 

And  yet  it  wears  a  purple  crown 
As  it  were  born  to  be  a  queen. 

The  summer's  latest  child,  it  rears 
Its  slender  form  of  bashful  grace 

And  has  its  mother's  dying  tears 
Upon  its  pallid  little  face. 


272  THE   AUTUMN   CYCLAMEN. 

The  autumn,  when  it  earliest  comes, 
Like  a  new  step-mother  is  mild, 

But  soon  a  sterner  look  assumes 
And  harshly  chills  the  orphan  child. 

We  see  her  in  the  dried-up  grass, 
With  yellow  leaves  around  her  shed, 

Fearing,  when  we  who  love  her  pass, 
And  hanging  down  her  pensive  head. 

VILLA  BARBERLNI,  1853. 


DIRGE. 

BEAR  him  gently  to  his  tomb, 
Scatter  roses  on  his  bier, 

Pure  in  heart,  in  vernal  bloom, 
He  hath  vanished  from  us  here. 

Hushed  and  low  be  every  strain, 
Even-tempered  be  our  grief, 

Who  could  wish  him  back  again, 
Even  though  his  life  were  brief. 

He  hath  vanished  from  the  shroud, 

Off  the  body  we  must  bear, 
Like  the  lightning  from  the  cloud, 

Like  a  song  into  the  air. 
18 


THE    BIVOUAC. 

OUR  camp  fire  fitfully  flashes, 
Where  darkly  we  bivouac, 

And  the  morning  will  see  our  ashes, 
But  we  come  never  back. 

We  have  the  stars  above  us 
That  burn  with  a  pitying  light, 

But  despite  the  hearts  that  love  us 
We  are  alone  in  the  night. 

Alone,  and  none  can  reach  us, 

Of  all  who  would  below, 
And  there  is  nothing  to  teach  us 

What  we  must  die  to  know. 


THE  BIVOUAC.  275 

Some  struggle,  their  hot  lips  parching, 

Some  die  of  sheer  despair; 
But  we  know  not  where  we  are  marching, 

We  know  not  what  we  are. 


Our  comrade  falls  beside  us, 
But  we  cannot  give  him  breath, 

And  in  vain  we  strive  to  hide  us 
Out  of  the  sight  of  death. 

Through  tight-pressed  lips  we  mutter 
Our  soldier  watchword,  Faith, 

If  we  speak  more  we  stutter, 

And  none  knoweth  what  he  saith. 

This  is  our  solemn  camping, 

In  our  bivouac  at  night, 
But  where  shall  we  be  tramping 

In  the  morning's  early  light  ? 


ARTEMIS. 

A  SLENDER  shape  of  graceful  mien, 

With  spirit  tenderly  serene 

O'er  which  had  never  passed  a  storm  ; 

In  feeling  pure,  in  impulse  warm : 

A  face  informed  with  serious  light, 

Too  peaceful  to  be  gayly  bright, 

Too  young  to  know  of  pain  and  care, 

Too  slight  their  wearing  weight  to  bear, 

She  passed  before  my  dreaming  eyes 

When  in  the  paling  western  skies 

The  young  moon  trembling  strove  to  hide 

Within  the  clear  sky's  luminous  tide. 

Again  to  full  expansion  grown 

We  met  when  maidenhood  had  flown  — 


ARTEMIS.  277 

A  noble  sweetness  lit  her  eyes, 
Her  look  was  calm  as  destiny's. 
Pure,  serious,  grandly  self-possessed, 
Her  passions  rounded  into  rest, 
She  stood  —  and  far  above  I  saw 
The  full-orbed  moon  without  a  flaw 
Walk  through  the  chambers  of  the  night 
And  comfort  all  the  world  with  light. 

Again,  when  youth  and  health  had  gone 
I  saw  her  pallid  cheek  and  wan, 
Life  scarcely  seemed  to  linger  there 
So  visionary  was  her  air, 
And  sweeter  than  all  words  can  tell 
The  smile  that  ever  said,  "  Farewell ! " 
Within  her  saintliness  of  mood 
All  joy,  all  passion  was  subdued, 
And  as  she  passed,  far  overhead 
The  morning  twilight  'gan  to  spread, 
While  thin  and  white  before  the  day 
The  waning  moon  paled  fast  away. 


THE    ENGLISH    LANGUAGE. 

"And  for  our  tong,  that  still  is  so  empayred 
By  travelling  linguists,  —  I  can  prove  it  clear 
That  no  tong  has  the  muses'  utterance  heyred 
For  verse,  and  that  swete  music  to  the  ear 
Strook  out  of  Rhyme  so  naturally  as  this." 

CHAPMAN. 

GIVE  me  of  every  language,  first  my  vigorous 
English 

Stored  with  imported  wealth,  rich  in  its  natural 
mines  — 

Grand  in  its  rhythmical  cadence,  simple  for  house 
hold  employment  — 

Worthy  the  poet's  song,  fit  for  the  speech  of  a  man. 

Not  from  one  metal   alone  the   perfectest  mirror  is 

shapen, 
Not   from   one   color   is  built   the   rainbow's   aerial 

bridge, 


THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.         279 

Instruments  blending  together   yield  the  divinest  of 

music, 
Out  of  a  myriad  flowers  sweetest  of  honey  is  drawn. 

<. 

So   unto   thy  close    strength  is  welded  and  beaten 

together 
Iron    dug  from   the    North,  ductile    gold  from   the 

South ; 
So  unto   thy  broad  stream  the   ice-torrents  born  in 

the  mountains 
Rush,  and  the  rivers  pour  brimming  with  sun  from 

the  plains. 

Thou  hast  the  sharp  clean  edge  and  the  downright 

blow  of  the  Saxon, 
Thou  the  majestical  march  and  the  stately  pomp  of 

the  Latin, 
Thou  the  euphonious  swell,  the  rhythmical  roll  of  the 

Greek ; 
Thine  is   the  elegant  suavity  caught  from  sonorous 

Italian, 


280          THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE. 

Thine   the  chivalric  obeisance,  the   courteous  grace 

of  the  Norman  — 
Thine     the     Teutonic     German's    inborn     guttural 

strength. 

Raftered  by  firm-laid  consonants,  windowed  by  open 
ing  vowels, 

Thou  securely  art  built,  free  to  the  sun  and  the 
air; 

Over  thy  feudal  battlements  trail  the  wild  tendrils 
of  fancy, 

Where  in  the  early  morn  warbled  our  earliest 
birds ; 

Science  looks  out  from  thy  watch-tower,  love  whis 
pers  in  at  thy  lattice, 

While  o'er  thy  bastions  wit  flashes  its  glittering  sword. 

Not  by  corruption  rotted  nor  slowly  by  ages  de 
graded, 

Have  the  sharp  consonants  gone  crumbling  away 
from  our  words ; 


THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.         281 

Virgin  and  clean  is  their  edge   like    granite  blocks 

chiselled  by  Egypt ; 
Just  as  when  Shakespeare  and  Milton  laid  them  in 

glorious  verse. 

Fitted  for  every  use  like  a  great  majestical  river, 

Blending  thy  various  streams,  stately  thou  flowest 
along, 

Bearing  the  white-winged  ship  of  Poesy  over  thy 
bosom, 

Laden  with  spices  that  come  out  of  the  tropical 
isles, 

Fancy's  pleasuring  yacht  with  its  bright  and  flutter 
ing  pennons, 

Logic's  frigates  of  war  and  the  toil-worn  barges  of 
trade. 

How    art   thou   freely    obedient  unto    the    poet  or 

speaker 
When,   in   a  happy  hour,  thought    into    speech   he 

translates  ; 


282          THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE. 

Caught  on  the  word's  sharp  angles  flash  the  bright 

hues  of  his  fancy  — 
Grandly   the    thought   rides   the  words,  as   a  good 

horseman  his  steed. 

Now,  clear,    pure,  hard,   bright,    and    one   by  one, 

like  to  hail-stones, 
Short  words  fall  from    his   lips  fast   as   the  first  of 

a  shower  — 
Now    in    a    twofold    column,    Spondee,  Iamb,  and 

Trochee, 
Unbroke,     firm-set,      advance,      retreat,     trampling 

along  — 

Now  with  a  sprightlier  springiness  bounding  in  trip 
licate  syllables, 
Dance    the    elastic    Dactylics    in   musical   cadences 

on, 
Now  their  voluminous    coil   intertangling    like  huge 

anacondas 
Roll     overwhelmingly     onward     the     sesquipedalian 

words. 


THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.         283 

Flexile  and  free  in  thy  gait  and   simple   in  all  thy 

construction, 
Yielding     to     every   turn    thou    bearest   thy   rider 


Now  like  our  hackney  or  draught-horse  serving  our 

commonest  uses, 
Now  bearing  grandly  the   Poet  Pegasus-like  to  the 

sky. 

Thou  art   not   prisoned   in  fixed   rules,  thou  art  no 
slave  to  a  grammar, 

Thou  art  an  eagle  uncaged  scorning  the  perch  and 
the  chain, 

Hadst  thou  been  fettered*  and  formalized,  thou  hadst 
been  tamer  and  weaker. 

How   could   the    poor    slave   walk   with    thy  grand 
freedom  of  gait  ? 

Let  then  grammarians   rail   and  let  foreigners  sigh 
for  thy  signposts, 

Wandering  lost   in    thy  maze,  thy  wilds  of  magni 
ficent  growth. 


284          THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE. 

Call  thee   incongruous,  wild,  of  rule  and  of  reason 

defiant ; 
I  in    thy  wildness    a    grand    freedom   of  character 

find. 
So  with  irregular  outline  tower  up  the  sky-piercing 

mountains 
Rearing     o'er     yawning    chasms     lofty    precipitous 

steeps, 
Spreading   o'er    ledges   unclimbable,   meadows    and 

slopes  of  green  smoothness, 
Bearing  the  flowers  in  their  clefts,  losing  their  peaks 

in  the  clouds. 

Therefore   it    is    that    I  praise  thee  and  never  can 

cease  from  rejoicing, 
Thinking  that   good   stout   English  is  mine  and  my 

ancestors'  tongue  ; 
Give    me    its   varying   music,  the   flow  of  its    free 

modulation  — 
I    will    not    covet    the    full    roll    of    the    glorious 

Greek,  — 


THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE.         285 

Luscious    and   feeble    Italian,  Latin   so    formal  and 

stately, 
French  with  its  nasal  lisp  nor  German  inverted  and 

harsh  — 
Not  while  our  organ  can  speak  with  its  many  and 

wonderful  voices  — 
Play  on  the  soft  flute  of  love,  blow  the  loud  trumpet 

of  war, 
Sing  with  the   high  sesquialtro,  or  drawing  its  full 

diapason 
Shake  all  the  air  with  the  grand  storm  of  its  pedals 

and  stops. 


SAPPHO. 

MY  love  is  false  and  my  life  is  lorn, 

Roll  on,  oh  ruthless  sea ! 
The  wreath  from  my  head  is  rudely  torn. 

Moan,  with  me  ! 

Curses  on  her  who  stole  my  love  ! 

Curses,  Lesbos,  light  on  thee  ! 
False  to  her,  oh!  Phaon  prove 

As  to  me. 


There  is  the  necklace  once  he  gave  — 
Take  it  false  and  changeful  sea! 

There  is  the  harp  for  thy  treacherous  wave ! 
Now  take  me  ! 


SONG. 


I  AM  weary  with  rowing  —  with  rowing, 
Let  me  drift  along  with  the  stream, 

I  am  weary  with  going  —  with  going, 
Let  me  lay  me  down  and  dream. 


I  can  struggle  no  longer  —  no  longer, 

Here  in  thine  arms  let  me  lie, 
In  thine  arms  which  are  stronger  —  are  stronger 

Than  all  of  this  earth  —  let  me  die. 

The  stream  in  its  flowing  —  its  flowing, 

Shall  bear  us  adown  to  the  sea  ; 
I  am  weary  with  rowing  —  with  rowing, 

I  yield  me  to  love  and  thee. 


288 


SONG. 


On  thy  bosom  reposing  —  reposing, 
While  night  draws  its  veil  on  the  sky, 

And  my  eyelids  are  closing  —  are  closing, 
Oh!  thus  let  me  live — let  me  die. 


TO     G.  W.   C.    AND    C.  P.   C. 

THE  hours  on  the  old  Piazza 

That  overhangs  the  sea 
With  a  tender  and  pensive  sweetness 

At  times  steal  over  me  ; 
And  again  o'er  the  balcony  leaning, 

We  list  to  the  surf  on  the  beach, 
That  fills  with  its  solemn  warning 

The  intervals  of  speech. 

We  three  sit  at  night  in  the  moonlight, 

As  we  sat  in  the  summer  gone, 
And  we  talk  of  art  and  nature 

And  sing  as  we  sit  alone  ; 
We  sing  the  old  songs  of  Sorrento, 

Where  oranges  hang  o'er  the  sea, 
And  our  hearts  are  tender  with  dreaming 

Of  days  that  no  more  shall  be. 
19 


290  TO    G.    W.    C.   AND    C.    P.    C. 

How  gayly  the  hours  went  with  us 

In  those  old  days  that  are  gone, 
Ah  !  would  we  were  all  together, 

Where  now  I  am  standing  alone. 
Could  life  be  again  so  perfect? 

Ah,  never !    these  years  so  drain 
The  heart  of  its  freshness  of  feeling, 

But  I  long,  though  the  longing  be  vain. 


THE    LOCUST-TREES. 

FAIR  locust-trees  —  fair  locust-trees, 
The  noontide  bower  of  booming  bees 
That  clustering  poise  with  busy  noise 
And  round  your  whitening  blossoms  hum, 
When  twilight  gray,  at  close  of  day, 
Creeps  nestling  deeper  in  your  gloom, 
And  fire-flies  lighten  through  the  night, 
Again  to  you  we  '11  come. 

Fair  locust-trees  —  dear  locust-trees, 
Oh !  whisper  not  unto  the  breeze 
What  yesternight  in  love's  true  plight 
We  swore  by  all  the  stars  above. 
Fill  with  perfume  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  o'er  us  spread  your  blossomy  roof 
To  keep  the  moon  from  prying  down 
To  stare  upon  our  love. 


292  THE   LOCUST-TREES. 

Fair  locust-trees  —  sweet  locust-trees, 

Tell  not  by  day  the  mysteries, 

The  loves  and  fears,  the  night  wind  hears 

When  hiding  in  your  leafy  breast. 

Oh !    breathe  no  word  of  all  you  heard, 

When  lips  to  clinging  lips  were  pressed, 

And  burning  Youth  its  maddened  troth 

Of  Passion  first  expressed. 

Fair  locust-trees  —  dear  locust-trees, 
From  you  let  none  the  secret  tease, 
And  you  shall  bloom  for  years  to  come 
And  we  will  tend  you  till  you  die. 
When  glow-worms  light  the  bank  at  night, 
And  crickets  clirr  and  soft  bats  fly, 
We  shall  be  near  —  then  locusts  dear 
Hide  us  from  every  eye. 

CASTEL  GANDOLFO,  July,  1852. 


SORRENTO. 

THE  midnight,  thick  with  cloud, 

Hangs  o'er  the  city's  jar, 
The  spirit's  shell  is  in  the  crowd, 

The  spirit  is  afar ; 
Far,  where  in  shadowy  gloom 

Sleeps  the  dark  orange  grove, 
My  sense  is  drunk  with  its  perfume, 

My  heart  with  love. 

The  slumberous,  whispering  sea, 
Creeps  up  the  sands  to  lay 

Its  sliding  bosom  fringed  with  pearls 
Upon  the  rounded  bay. 

List !   all  the  trembling  leaves 
Are  rustling  overhead, 


294  SORRENTO. 

Where  purple  grapes  are  hanging  dark 
On  the  trellised  loggia  spread. 

Far  off,   a  misted  cloud, 

Hangs  fair  Inarime\ 
The  boatman's  song  from  the  lighted  boat 

Rises  from  out  the  sea. 
We  listen  —  then  thy  voice 

Pours  forth  a  honeyed  rhyme  ; 
Ah!   for  the  golden  nights  we  passed 

In  our  Italian  time. 

There  is  the  laugh  of  girls 

That  walk  along  the  shore, 
The  marinaio  calls  to  them 

As  he  suspends  his  oar. 
Vesuvius  rumbles  sullenly, 

With  fitful  lurid  gleam, 
The  background  of  all  Naples  life, 

The  nightmare  of  its  dream. 


SORRENTO.  295 

Oh  !   lovely,  lovely  Italy, 

I  yield  me  to  thy  spell ! 
Reach  the  guitar,  my  dearest  friend, 

We  '11  sing,   "  Home  !    fare  thee  well !  " 
Oh  !  world  of  work  and  noise, 

What  spell  hast  thou  for  me  ? 
The  syren  Beauty  charms  me  here 

Beyond  the  sea. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  CRAWFORD'S  BRONZE 
STATUE  OF  BEETHOVEN,  AT  THE  BOSTON  MUSIC  HALL, 
MARCH  1,  1856. 


LIFT  the  veil  !    the  work  is  finished  ;    fresh  created 

from  the  hands 
Of  the  artist,  —  grand  and  simple,  there  our  great 

Beethoven  stands. 
Clay   no   longer  —  he   has   risen    from    the   buried 

mould  of  earth, 
To    a    golden    form    transfigured    by    a   new    and 

glorious  birth. 
Art  hath   bid   the   evanescent   pause   and   know  no 

more  decay ; 
Made  the  mortal    shape  immortal,  that   to  dust  has 

passed  away. 
There's   the   brow   by   thought   o'erladen,    with    its 

tempest  of  wild  hair ; 


PKOLOGUE.  297 

There  the  mouth   so   sternly  silent  and   the  square 

cheeks  seamed  with  care  ; 
There    the    eyes    so   visionary,    straining    out,    yet 

seeing  naught 
But    the    inward    world    of  genius    and   the   ideal 

forms  of  thought ; 
There  the  hand  that   gave   its    magic    to   the  cold, 

dead,  ivory  keys, 
And  from  out   them   tore   the    struggling  chords  of 

mighty  symphonies. 
There    the   figure,  calm,  concentred,   on   its   breast 

the  great  head  bent ;  — 
Stand  forever  thus,  great   master  !    thou  thy  fittest 

monument ! 

Poor  in  life,  by  friends  deserted,  through  disease 
and  pain  and  care, 

Bravely,  stoutly  hast  though  striven,  never  yielding 
to  despair  ; 

High  the  claims  of  Art  upholding ;  firm  to  Free 
dom;  in  a  crowd 


298 


PROLOGUE. 


Where    the    highest    bent    as    courtiers,    speaking 

manfully  and  loud. 
In    thy    silent    world    of  deafness,    broken    by    no 

human  word, 
Music    sang   with    voice    ideal,   while    thy  listening 

spirit  heard; 
Tones  consoling  and  prophetic,  tones  to  raise,  refine 

and  cheer ; 
Deathless  tones,  that  thou  hast  garnered  to  refresh 

and  charm  us  here. 
And    for    all    these    "  riches    fineless,"    all    these 

wondrous  gifts  of  thine, 
We  have  only  Fame's  dry  laurel   on   thy  careworn 

brow  to  twine. 
We  can  only  say,  Great   Master,  take   the  homage 

of  our  heart ; 
Be  the  High  Priest  in  our  temple,  dedicate  to  thee 

and  Art  ; 
Stand  before  us,  and  enlarge  us  with  thy  presence 

and  thy  power, 

And  o'er  all  Art's  deeps  and  shallows  light  us  like 
a  beacon-tower. 


PROLOGUE.  299 

In  the  mighty  realm  of  Music  there  is  but  a  single 

speech, 
Universal  as  the  world  is,  that  to  every  heart  can 

reach. 
Thou    within    that    realm     art    monarch,    but    the 

humblest  vassal  there 
Knows  the  accents   of  that   language  when  it  calls 

to  war  or  prayer. 
Underneath    its    world-wide     Banyan,    friends     the 

gathering  nations  sit ; 
Red    Sioux    and  dreamy  German  dance    and   feast 

and  fight  to  it. 
When    the    storm  of  battle  rages,  and   the   brazen 

trumpet  blares, 
Cheering   on    the    serried    tumult,    in    the    van   its 

meteor  flares  ; 
Sings  the  laurelled  song  of  conquest,  o'er  the  buried 

comrade  wails, 
Plays  the  peaceful  pipes   of  shepherds   in  the  lone 

Etrurian  vales  ; 


300  PROLOGUE. 

Whispers  love  beneath  the  lattice,  where  the  honey 
suckle  clings  ; 

Crowns  the   bowl    and    cheers  the   dancers,  and  its 
peace  to  sorrow  brings  ;  — 

Nature   knows   its   wondrous   magic,  always   speaks 
in  tune  and  rhyme  ; 

Doubles  in  the  sea  the  heaven,  echoes  on  the  rocks 
the  chime. 

All   her  forests    sway  harmonious,  all   her   torrents 
lisp  in  song ; 

And  the  starry  spheres  make  music,  gladly  journey 
ing  along. 

Thou  hast  touched  its  mighty  mystery,  with  a  finger 

as  of  fire  ; 
Thrilled  the  heart  with  rapturous  longing,  bade  the 

struggling  soul  aspire; 
Through   thy  daring  modulations,  mounting  up  o'er 

dizzy  stairs 
Of  harmonic  change  and  progress,  into  high  Elysian 

airs, 


PROLOGUE.  301 

Where  the  wings  of  angels  graze  us,  and  the  voices 
of  the  spheres 

Seem  not  far,  and  glad  emotions  fill  the  silent  eves 
with  tears. 

What  a  vast,  majestic  structure  thou    hast    builded 
out  of  sound, 

With  its  high  peak   piercing   Heaven,  and  its  base 
deep  underground. 

Vague  as  air,  yet  firm  and  real  to  the  spiritual  eye, 

Seamed  with  fire   its   cloudy  bastions  far   away  up 
lifted  lie, 

Like   those   sullen   shapes  of  thunder  we  behold  at 
close  of  day, 

Piled  upon  the  far  horizon,  where  the  jagged  light 
nings  play. 

Awful  voices,  as  from  Hades,  thrill  us,  growling  from 
its  heart ; 

Sudden    splendors    blaze    from    out    it,  cleaving. its 
black  walls  apart; 

White-winged  birds  dart  forth   and  vanish,  singing, 
as  they  pass  from  sight, 


302  PROLOGUE. 

Till    at   last  it  lifts,  and  'neath  it   shows  a  field  of 

amber  light 
Where  some  single  star  is  shining,  throbbing  like  a 

new-born  thing, 
And  the   earth,  all   drenched    in  splendor,   lets   its 

happy  voices  sing. 

Topmost  crown  of  ancient  Athens  towered  the 
Phidian  Parthenon ; 

Upon  Freedom's  noble  forehead,  Art  the  starry 
jewel,  shone. 

Here  as  yet  in  our  Republic,  in  the  furrows  of  our 
soil, 

Slowly  grows  Art's  timid  blossom  'neath  the  heavy 
foot  of  toil. 

Spurn  it  not  —  but  spare  it,  nurse  it,  till  it  glad 
den  all  the  land  ; 

Hail  to-day  this  seed  of  projnise,  planted  by  a  gen 
erous  hand  — 

Our  first  statue  to  an  artist  —  nobly  given,  nobly 
planned. 


PROLOGUE.  303 


Never  is  a  nation  finished  while  it  wants  the  grace 

of  Art- 
Use  must  borrow  robes  from  Beauty,  life  must  rise 

above  the  mart. 
Faith  and  love  are  all  ideal,  speaking  with  a  music 

tone  — 
And    without    their   touch   of   magic,  labor   is   the 

Devil's  own. 
Therefore  are  we  glad  to  greet  thee,  master  artist, 

to  thy  place, 
For  we   need   in   all   our   living   Beauty  and  ideal 

grace, 
Mostly  here,  to  lift  our  nation,  move  its   heart  and 

calm  its  nerves, 
And  to   round   life's    angled    duties   to   imaginative 

curves. 
Mid  the  jarring  din  of  traffic,  let  the  Orphic  tone 

of  Art 
Lull  the   barking   Cerberus  in  us,  soothe   the  cares 

that  gnaw  the  heart. 


304  PROLOGUE. 

With  thy  universal  language,  that  our  feeble  speech 

transcends, 
Wing  our  thoughts  that  creep  and  grovel,  conie  to 

us  when  speaking  ends, 

Bear  us  into  realms  ideal,  where  the  cant  of  com 
mon  sense 
Dins  no  more  its  heartless   maxims   to  the  jingling 

of  its  pence. 
Thence  down  dropped  into  the  Actual,  we  shall  on 

our  garments  bear 
Perfume  of  an  unknown  region,  beauty  of  celestial 

air  ; 
Life  shall  wear  a  nobler  aspect,  joy  shall  greet  us 

in  the  street ; 
Earthy  dust  of  low  ambition  shall   be  shaken  from 

our  feet. 
Evil   spirits  that   torment  us,  into   air  shall  vanish 

all, 

And  the  magic  harp  of  David   soothe  the  haunted 
heart  of  Saul. 


PKOLOGUE.  805 

As  of  yore  the  swart   Egyptians   rent  the  air  with 

choral  song, 
When   Osiris'  golden   statue   triumphing   they   bore 

along  ; 
As    along    the   streets  of  Florence,  borne    in   glad 

procession  went 
Cimabue's    famed   Madonna,    praised   by  voice  and 

instrument ; 
Let  our  voices  sing  thy  praises,  let  our  instruments 

combine, 
Till  the  hall  with   triumph   echo,  for   the  hour  and 

place  are  thine. 


20 


L'EN  VOI. 

THE  corn  is  reaped  from  off  my  field, 
But  half  the  ears  are  spoiled  with  rot 
And  all  is  starveling,  and  not 

What  happier  acres  yield. 

The  fallow  of  the  year  gives  stop. 

Say  !    when  the  spring  comes  round  again, 
Is  it  worth  while  to  sow  my  grain 
And  try  another  crop  ? 

I  know  not !    come  to  me  and  say 
Good  friend !    if  this  thin,  arid  soil, 
Is  worth  the  tilling  and  the  toil 
I  seem  to  throw  away  ? 


307 


Or  is  it  better  it  should  stand 
With  scarlet  poppy,  buttercup, 
And  dandelion  peeping  up, 

A  simple  pasture  land  ? 

A  lazy  pasture  land  of  ease 

Where  sheep  may  crop  and  goats  may  graze, 
And  wavering  foot-paths  make  their  ways 
To  little  cottages? 

A  little  Common,  unimproved 

That  care  and  pains  have  never  irked 
Where  we  may  say,  "  we  have  not  worked, 
But  we  have  only  loved  ?  " 

Jan.  '56. 


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